


Super-Massive Black Hole

by Loquitur



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Anatomy, Artificial Intelligence, Bad Puns, Blackwater AU, Cyborgs, F/M, Feminist Themes, Food Porn, Gen, Genetic Engineering, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Gun Safety, Humanist themes, Hunters & Hunting, Medicine, Music, Other, Physics, Political Theory, Prophecy, Realistic, Robots, Science Fiction, Social Commentary, Space Battles, Space Opera, Survival Training
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-05 23:12:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 51,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loquitur/pseuds/Loquitur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the deep darkness of space, there was silence."<br/>Amid the raging battle of starships and politics, there is one thing held constant: gravity. It pulls things together, and it pulls them apart.</p><p>Character tags will be edited as they are encountered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kashicanhaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashicanhaz/gifts).



> I own nothing.

In the deep darkness of space, there was silence. A thousand thousand celestial bodies careened around each other in an endlessly expansive dance with no beat, no melody.

Within a spiral arms galaxy in a small patch of an infinite darkness, there was a ship. The light of a star that had died several million light-years away ran along the smooth contours of its hull, highlighting a faint tinge of blue within the black of its paint. Just underneath the nose, the paint was chiseled off in the shape of a massive stallion in mid-canter.

Within the jetty hull of this ship, there was a man. He sat within the cockpit, his long fingers steepled in front of him. A star map hovered just beyond his hands with several planets’ names tagged in the Common Tongue. He exhaled heavily. His breath came through mismatched lips. One side, though cruel seeming, was pale and well-formed. The other was a twisted mass of blackened flesh, with an unnatural flash of bone jumping out from its cradle of slick canyons and pits. What was left of his burned lip twitched periodically.

Sandor Clegane (for that was his name) removed his elbows from the console to massage his temples. The adrenaline had long since run out and now he was left with the consequences. He had no plan beyond immediate survival, but that wouldn’t keep the dogs off their heels for long. He smiled bitterly, turning the wretched side of his face even more monstrous. How ironic for the Hound to be hunted by lions.

It was all their fault, really. Joffrey decided to cut off Ned Stark’s righteous head, and the Lannisters allowed it. Joffrey had his betrothed beaten by several Knights, in front of the court, no less, and the Lannisters turned a blind eye. His own brother, _Ser_ Gregor Clegane, rode through the Riverland System, raping and pillaging his way through the breadbasket of the Trident Galaxy, and the Lannisters condoned it behind doors that were purposefully not-so-closed.

And then, for the Imp to order him back into the hellfire of the Blackwater! He almost laughed thinking about the ridiculousness of it all. Four times he ventured into that godforsaken asteroid belt, and four times he fought against man and flame. That fucking Imp, he could have strangled him— setting those damn asteroids aflame in the middle of _fucking space_ and watching them explode while he and his men were in the thick of it, fighting off Stannis and his armada of religious zealots. He wondered, briefly, what would make the flames green— iron and some kind of ammonia salt, maybe? He had not paid too much attention to his chemistry lessons— before he let the fury take over. He had shouted a barrage of orders to the men in his squadron and urged his vessel into the thick of the fray.

He was the Hound. His reputation was as black as his ship. He was (until now) loyal to a fault. He was dogged in his pursuit of his master’s enemies and once he had someone’s neck in his jaws, he never let go.

He lashed out with missile and laser in the center of that blazing asteroid belt, causing so many enemies ships to explode that he lost count. He was grateful for the familiar orange flare of combusting starships against the eerie green glow consuming the battlefield, but that spot of familiarity wasn’t enough to keep him.

“Get back to the field, Dog.”

Tyrion Lannister’s grotesque face popped up in the comm section of his HUD. The white light in the Imp’s bridge made a painful contrast to the red of his cockpit. Moron. He probably thought that stereotypical white light would make him seem more like a commander than a greenhorn. In truth it would fuck with his vision if he was brave enough to join the dogfight. He doubted it.

“You’re a member of the Kingsguard. You’re sworn to protect the king. Now get back out there, Dog!”

He pulled his eyes away from the navigation system and put the ship into auto-pilot. He stood; an unnecessary action, but one that would drive home his disdain for the stunted bastard. The Hound glared at the square containing Tyrion’s video feed. “Fuck you. Fuck the Kingsguard. Fuck the king.”

He pressed the button to cut off the link and started to block the wavelength that the Imp was using. A voice message got through, only a few megabytes large. His ship automatically opened the file, and the Imp’s voice filled the cockpit.

“They call me half a man. What does that make you?”

 

* * *

 

 

It had been all too easy to hack into the little bird’s room, even with his level of inebriation. The lock wasn’t terribly complicated and he had a knack for coding. Probably due to all of the hours he spent working on computers in the Lannister’s stronghold on Casterly Rock. There were few things to do at the Rock when you had no friends (Gregor’s reputation was mostly to blame, though his own temper didn’t help) and had grown tired of whores.

Blood was spattered all over his hands and armor. He had killed a man in the docking bay, one of those up-jumped Gold Cloaks, starving for recognition. What better way to gain infamy than to slay a rogue Hound? The man had been laughably easy to kill. It was too bad Slynt was recruiting rats to play at being glorified watchdogs. He could have used a decent fight. Instead he settled with shoving his vibra-knife into the man’s neck and watching the blood vaporize as it spewed from his jugular. Luckily, the man had a thermos full of wine that he was all too happy to relieve him of. He wouldn’t need it in hell anyways.

He thumbed at the weapon at his hip. When activated, this particular vibra-knife glowed a soft yellow from whatever fluorescent material they used in its manufacturing. He preferred to use tried-and-true steel, but retro weaponry (with the exception of Valyrian steel) couldn’t slice through Knightly armor, so he went with the vibros. He didn’t fully understand the technology behind it, but something about the vibration of the blade super-heated the material of whatever it was cutting and stabbed straight through it. They were multi-purpose tools in the right hands, though an unskilled user could easily find himself with severed fingers (they’d be cauterized at the very least).

Red strips marked the door handle where he grasped it. Mad King Aerys had a love for old things, non-automatic doors included. He renovated the Red Keep to reflect his obsession when he wasn’t otherwise occupied by raping his wife. Robert Baratheon hadn’t had time to retrofit Maegor’s Holdfast before his “untimely” death.

The Hound crooked his elbow and used the exposed material of his bodysuit to wipe away the blood as best he could.

The little bird wasn’t in her room. Whatever. Didn’t matter. They were all fucked. The king was fucked, he was fucked, she was fucked— well, not yet, anyway. But she would be if he had anything to say about it. If he was going to die, he would die with her maiden’s blood on his cock. He had never raped anyone before, but the mechanics couldn’t be much different. More tears and screaming than he was used to, to be sure.

His stomach turned. Wine after fighting in zero-g was always a bitch. He felt his intestines start to curl, and resisted the urge to vomit. The bed wasn’t far away. He’d just lie down until his guts decided to stop doing flips.

Gods, but he was tired! His very bones felt like gelatin. While he was lying down, he might as well close his eyes. Just for a minute, until the little bird got back…

 

* * *

 

 

His lizard brain woke before his consciousness. Awareness of another being floated to the back of his head. The coarse hairs on his arms rose beneath the tungsten-kevlar weave of his body suit. Footsteps. Light and even. Female, or that bizarre eunuch-creature-thing they called the Spider. He inhaled as deeply as he dared. Perfume. Light and sweet, but not cloying. Hint of… citrus? Maybe? He wasn’t as deft at detecting all the minute little components of a lady’s perfume as the courtiers, but at least he didn’t have to shove a wench’s hand up his nose to do it. Grandad used to joke that their family had spent so much time around dogs, they were becoming dogs themselves. “I have proof, Little Hound!” He would point to the baby’s drooling and laugh and slap what was left of his knee. But then he died, and there was no one left to protect him from Gregor.

“Lady…” a voice whimpered.

His guts tightened. It was her, the little bird, his little bird once he claimed her. He opened his eyes to the darkness. Copper filaments gleamed in the dim light. Her hair was woven with them, no doubt. As if she needed help to look like her mane was made of flames. Would it feel like being burned again if he buried his face in it while he moved inside her?

He waited, carefully, quietly, for her to move away from the open window and within striking distance. Typical stupid girl, assuming that she was safe. Life was not a song. Nothing guaranteed that a man like him wouldn’t break into her room to do horrible things to her.

He launched forward, snatched her arm, and threw her onto the bed. She cried out, but he quickly covered her mouth with his blood-stained hand. Let her try to bite him, if she dared. She’d break all the pretty little teeth in her head before she penetrated his body suit’s fiber. The Hound straddled her with his heavily muscled thighs. He grabbed both her wrists with his other hand and pinned them above her head. There would be no escape for her. “Scream and I’ll kill you. Understand?”

She nodded her head frantically, her eyes wide with fear. He unpeeled his fingers from her mouth and pulled his vibra-knife from its sheath. He held the point of the blade close enough to her neck that she could, no doubt, feel the immense heat. Over the knife’s lazy humming he rasped. “You promised me a song. So sing. Sing for your little life.”

She trembled beneath him, silent tears trickling down her cheeks. “F—f—f—” her voice quavered.

“I said ‘sing,’ not stammer!” He snarled and brought the knife closer. In the blade’s yellow glow, he could see her skin start to redden. His guts clenched, and he pulled the knife back.

She licked her lips, and started anew, but the song that came forth wasn’t that of Florian and his cunt. “Gentle mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray…”

Mercy. He was holding a vibra-knife to her neck and she was begging for mercy. Stupid, naïve creature probably didn’t expect what he was planning on doing either. It would be so simple to rip through her cerulean samite bodice and lose himself in the softness of her flesh, turn her sweet melody into a cacophony of weeping. He would do what Joffrey failed to do with a single thrust.

Could he, though?

She was so soft, so sweet, so innocent. She couldn’t look into his eyes, but she always addressed him with courtesy, even when he shoved the brutal truth in her face.

She never called him Dog.

Could he break her? Could he manage to take his pleasure of her while he listened to her cries of pain and violation, knowing that he was the source, and be unmoved? He was able to lose himself on the battlefield and tune out the sounds of his comrades dying. From the first time Joffrey had her beaten and he wiped away her blood with his own hands, he found that he couldn’t block out her anguish, no matter how hard he tried. Yet, he was contemplating hurting her worse than anyone else ever had.

He was a monster.

He was no better than Gregor.

Warm fingers brushed against his face. He had not noticed when he released the little bird’s wrists and flicked off the knife. She cupped his cheek, thumbing away the tears falling from his eyes. He leaned into her touch. “Little bird…”

He sheathed the vibra-knife and got off of her. She quickly sat up. Her fingers probed the skin where he held the blade too close. He paced in front of her unlit fireplace. What to do, what to do…? He didn’t want to die, not here, not now. Fuck.

He stopped his frantic steps. “Don’t you want to know who’s winning?”

She flinched. “Who?”

“I only know who’s lost. Me.” A thread of mirthless laughter escaped from his chest.

“Lost?” She repeated numbly.

“Everything. All of it. “He resumed his pacing. “Fucking dwarf. I should’ve killed him myself. It’ll be too late now. I’m going.”

“Going?”

“Chirping little bird, repeating everything thing she hears,” he snapped. “Yes, going.”

“Where will you go?”

“Away from the fire. Away from this system. Somewhere. Anywhere.”

“But the queen—”

He stopped again. “Fuck the queen. No one can stop me with this.” He grabbed the pommel of the greatsword at his hip. “I’ll cut through any man that tries.”

She was silent, her face scrunched up from trying to process everything. Eventually, she said “Why are you here?”

He came before her and kneeled. Her eyes were lowered, her face turned as far away from him as she could turn it without being _discourteous_. The burned side of his face started twitching. “Look at me. Look at me!”

She obeyed as slow as she dared. “I could keep you safe.” He rasped. “They’re all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.”

She closed her eyes and shuddered. He sighed. “Can’t bear to look, can you?”

Not that he could blame her. Fighting the sickening feeling in his stomach, he stood and turned his back to her. Fuck it all. Especially Joffrey and his Kingsguard. He tore off the clasps holding the white cloak to his black chrome-plated pauldrons. Fuck it all.

He made to leave, but was halted by a little voice crying “Wait!”

He stopped dead in his tracks. The bed creaked from the release of her weight. “You wouldn’t hurt me.” It was more a statement than a question.

“No, little bird. I wouldn’t.”

“Take me with you. Please.”

His chest filled with ice. He turned to look over his shoulder. She was standing there, trembling, with tear-stained cheeks, clutching his cloak to her breast, _asking_ him to rescue her. Like a Knight in one of her stupid songs.

He faced her and grabbed one of her slight forearms. He rubbed the rich material of her dress, then yanked the sleeve off. She reeled away in renewed fear, her eyes wild and questioning. He ripped a jagged tear through the fabric. “We need something to throw them off the scent. Give me one of your pins.”

“Pins?”

“Seven hells, a hair pin! You’re going to get us killed if you stand there gaping any longer!”

With shaking hands, she slid a copper rod out of her intricately coiled hair. He admired the artful curl of dark sapphires on the pin. “Don’t scream,” he commanded.

He flipped over her left hand and used the pin’s sharpened tip to prick her thumb. “Ow!”

“Quiet.”

He stuck the pin into his belt. Blood was welling up on the pad of her finger. He grabbed the digit and squeezed until the blood started to run down her palm. He smeared the blood on her torn sleeve, then entangled it in the bush of roses that sat in a flower box just beyond the window sill. “Take only what you need.”

“But my instruments…!”

He grimaced. She was an accomplished musician, a growing rarity among the nobility in their increasingly technology-driven society. Asking her to leave them would be like asking him to leave behind his sword. It couldn’t be helped.

“Your harp or your life.”

She turned away from him, sniffing. Trying not to cry, pitiful thing. She pulled a suede knapsack from the chest at the foot of her bed and started throwing things in. He hoped she would be practical.

He advanced on the door, vibra-knife back in hand. He reveled in its comforting buzz before shoving it into the door handle. It took all his willpower to keep from flinching away as sparks flew out. The door handle and its manual lock were quickly reduced to slag. He gave the same treatment to the door’s computer.

When—there were no if’s about it— the Lannisters started sniffing around, they would hopefully be confused by the melted computer and handle. A high-class soldier like himself would have hacked into the room. Any without the knowledge or resources to hack (of which there were many) would probably start at the computer, since the automatic doors in the rest of the Red Keep would usually open if their comp was fried. Not so with ordinary doors. There were many that thought they could benefit from disposing of the traitorous Young Wolf’s sister Add to that the wide availability of heat-inducing tools and a scrap of cloth with DNA from one Sansa Stark, and the Lannisters would be too busy searching for a rat amongst themselves to even think about looking for their rogue Hound. Few would suspect she would be with him. Her fear was common knowledge. _I guess she’s more afraid of Stannis_ , he thought bitterly.

“I’m ready, ser,” the little bird piped.

“Fuck your sers. Come on.” He seized her hand and pulled her behind him into the hall.

He growled directions at her while they made their way to the docking bay. “Follow me at all times. I don’t want to hear a peep out of you. We get into a fight, you find somewhere to hide until I get you. We get captured, you tell them I kidnapped you. Understand?”

“But what about you?”

He laughed. “Fuck me, little bird. I’m as good as dead already. Quitting the field’s a death sentence. Better that at least one of us lives.”

“I won’t leave you!” she cried.

“This isn’t one of your songs, stupid girl!” He barked. “You do as I say or get left behind, simple as that. I say run, you run. I say hide, you hide. I say you leave me to die and you fucking do it!”

She started crying again. All she did was cry. Gods, maybe she would have saved herself by now if she ever stopped crying long enough to think properly.

He shoved her into a hallway at the sound of approaching footsteps. They were too close to her room for him to dispatch anyone with his knife, for fear of what they would do with the evidence. He drew the copper pin from his belt and, before the guard knew what was happening, stabbed the pin through the man’s eye. Bits of the guard’s optic nerve came out when he withdrew the pin, so he wiped the end on the man’s tabard.

“Come on out now,” he called.

The little bird emerged from the hallway, her eyes screwed up shut. She reached out for him blindly. “My lord, I’m afraid—”

“You’re afraid to look death in the face,” He interrupted nastily while grasping her hand again. “That’s fine. All you highborn ladies let others do your killing for you. Why should you be any different, even if you’re a Northerner?”

She kept quiet, though, just like he told her to.

They made it to the docking bay without too much interference. The little bird’s dress was covered in dust from ducking behind a row of old tapestries while he took care of another Gold Cloak, but was otherwise intact.

They were almost to his ship, when a man’s voice shouted “Ser!”

He pivoted on his heel, placing his body between the intruder and the girl. “What do you want?” he challenged.

“By order of the Queen Regent, no one is allowed to leave.”

He grinned maliciously. “I’d like to see you stop me.”

“There’s no need for violence, ser. We can have a rational conversa—”

The Hound stabbed his vibra-knife into the center of the man’s skull and watched as his grey matter liquefied, then evaporated. “Conversation’s over.”

They boarded the ship, the Hound jumping into the captain’s seat and beginning the launch sequence. She took the Navigator’s seat and buckled herself in. “Lift off in t-minus 20… 19… 18… 17…” the computer’s voice drawled in a calm, masculine voice.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

_We_. He liked the ring of that. “I’ll figure that out after we’ve cleared Crown space,” he said while double-checking the fuel gauge and vitals. Oxygen-scrubbers had been replaced a couple of months ago, CO2 filter was in good condition, as was the water recycling system.

“12… 11… 10…”

“I’m frightened.”

“Everything frightens you, craven,” he replied distractedly.

“I am not a craven!” she protested. “I’ve just never been on a ship this— this—”

He barked his laughter. “This small? This cheap-looking?”

She opened her mouth again, but her words were swallowed by the roar of the engines catapulting them out of the atmosphere and into space.

 

* * *

 

 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

They had caught the edge of a minor skirmish. There were too many asteroids and wrecked ships to risk going into hyperdrive. The Hound spun his ship around another piece of a destroyed cruiser. Three bogies sat on his tail, another two dead ahead. He barrel-rolled towards the port side, dodging a flurry of laser from behind. He was unable to dodge the debris from a shattered asteroid, however. Chunks of space rock scraped against the hull, destabilizing their center of gravity. “Seven fucking hells!” He strafed towards starboard to avoid a pack of missiles. The ship’s combat AI caught them on target and obliterated the missiles with a well-aimed laser.

“Shit. We’re not getting out like this.”

“What will we do?” The little bird asked, her hands clutching the seat belts as if her life depended on it. She had likely not experienced zero-g in a combat vessel before.

“ _We_ aren’t going to do anything. _I_ am going to slag these whoresons and get us out of here, and _you_ are going to do what you do best.”

“What I do best?”

“Look pretty and shut up.”

She gasped in fear as a laser scraped across the ship’s nose. He cursed again and executed a different set of evasive maneuvers. The enemy ships were closing in quickly, but they didn’t have nearly enough raw speed or agility to match him. If he just timed things right…

Opportunity jumped out at him like a sex-deprived whore. A huge asteroid, at least ten times the size of his ship was hanging in front of him. The two bogies that had been behind him were now engaged with a Lannister ship, as evidenced by the flamboyant red and gold accents along its hull. Their three comrades were too close to him to stop properly, but not close enough to ram into his tail end.

Gritting his teeth, he slammed the accelerator as far forward as it would go. The ship leapt forward with a violent snarl.

“Ser…”

“Shut up.”

“But ser…”

“Shut up and let me concentrate.”

The asteroid was uncomfortably close now. He hoped the three pilots weren’t especially skilled. It was unlikely that they were— the only ones that were close to him were Gregor and the Kingslayer— but there was always the off chance that someone would get lucky.

“Warning… collision imminent… Warning…” the ship’s computer droned.

Yellow and black exclamation marks flashed on the bottom of the HUD. _Not yet_ … _just a little closer_ …

He nose-dived at the last second. The aft cameras went white from the three-pronged explosion of the bogies striking the asteroid. “Oh thank gods!” the little bird exclaimed in relief. “How did you do that?”

“Destrier-class ships are powerful, but they’re too weighty to stop or turn quickly.” He grinned maliciously.

“This isn’t a destrier?” The puzzled quirk of her brow was oddly endearing.

“This is a courser-class.”

“Oh… It doesn’t seem that much smaller.”

“It’s smaller where it counts.”

“What’s it called?”

“The Stranger— don’t unbuckle yet.”

Her hands froze on the clasp.

“We’re not out of the asteroid field yet.”

“Not out—?” Realization dawned on her face. “You’re not actually going to try piloting through that, are you?!”

He shrugged. “Only way we’re going to avoid the main forces.”

“Don’t you know the possibility of successfully navigating an asteroid field?” Her voice keened with renewed fear.

He diverted his attention from the screens long enough to fix her with a withering stare. “Do I look like a calculator to you?”

He’d show her a thing or two. Or they’d be dead. Either choice would be preferable to facing execution on terra firma. He turned back to the controls and lost himself in the feel of the ship.

 

* * *

 

 

The Hound kicked on the gravity simulator and the hyperdrive not long after they breached the Blackwater. Stranger’s autopilot AI was fairly intelligent (given that he had designed its mainframe), so he allowed it to take over.

He swiveled around in his seat to look at the little bird. She was curled up in the Navigator’s seat as comfortably as possible, which wasn’t saying much. Her head was pillowed on her right arm, and her knees were pulled up to her chest in an awkward pantomime of a fetus. The stress had likely been too much for her.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Battle lust could only sustain a man for so long. He was on his way to crashing, and crashing hard. A few hours of sleep would serve as the best remedy, but he didn’t foresee going to bed any time soon.

Stranger was designed to accommodate a crew of three, but he had repurposed the living quarters for the other crew members into a second cargo hold. He never expected to have anyone on the ship long enough to necessitate maintaining another room. He should have known trading off a set of beds for the ability to run longer missions would have bit him in the ass.

The Hound sighed and unbuckled his seat’s harness before walking across the pit. He stood before the little bird for a minute, watching her sleep. Her youthful face looked even younger in repose; she was even drooling slightly. _Stupid dog, she’s hardly more than a girl_ , he chastised himself. The swell of her breast said otherwise. Younger than him, to be sure, but the ever growing width of her hips ended any thoughts he might have had about her being just a child.

He briefly contemplated waking her, but decided against it. Let her have this small kindness; she would have to deal with him once she woke. He pressed the release clasp and pulled her arms out of the straps as gently as her could. She moaned softly when he lifted her out of the seat, but didn’t stir otherwise.

The captain’s living quarters were at the beginning of the hall, as far from the thrumming engine as possible for such a small vessel. The automatic doors parted before him, revealing their Spartan interior.

Sandor Clegane was not one for frills or grandiosity. Utilitarianism was the name of the game when it came to running any of the ships in the Steed category without undue stress, and none played as well as he did.

The walls were a somber gray, several shades darker than the main thoroughfares, and housed no windows. There was a desk, nightstand, and wardrobe, all made of a hardy black carbon fiber. The bed was the most ostentatious article in the room. The frame was carbon fiber like the other furniture, but the bedding was far more luxurious. The sheets were a rich yellow satin underneath a wealth of millet hull-stuffed pillows of black satin with yellow trim. On top of the sheets rested a giant, black goose feather comforter, also in black, with hounds embroidered along the edges in gold.

They were the most expensive things he owned, besides Stranger and his gear. All of it was a nameday gift from the Lannisters many years ago. He suspected that Cersei was the one most responsible for it, as evident from the style of embroidery. Much as he loathed excess, it was more effort to get rid of the bedding and buy a new set, so he continued to make use of it.

The pillows had been thrown off the bed during the dogfight. Thankfully, the blanket remained mostly on, sparing him the effort of trying to pull it back with the girl still in his arms. He laid her in the bed, not ungently, and drew the covers over her before leaving.

 

* * *

 

 

The Hound resumed his vigil in the captain’s throne. He popped two caffeine tablets with a swig of recirculated water. Gods what he wouldn’t give for some thick, sour Dornish red. There were several casks of his favorite vintage in the cargo hold, just waiting to be opened… But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to keep alert, had to stay sharp. They weren’t out of the blast zone yet.

He brought up the star map and stared at the multitude of galaxies rotating slowly. A bright blue marker showed their position in the Crown Galaxy, while several yellow markers displayed locations he had bookmarked. It would be possible to refuel in one of the Riverland ports and then make a decision about where to go from there. He had already decided against crossing through the Westerland solar system, even if it meant forgoing cheap supplies at the hunk of rock his house claimed as home. Better to spend the extra gold and risk facing Gregor than travelling through Lannister territory.

He zoomed out of the Crown Galaxy to look upon the space that comprised the Westeros Empire territory. The spiral arms Crown, Reach, and Storm galaxies; the elliptical North, Gold, and Trident galaxies; the irregularly shaped Vale and Sand galaxies; and the Iron System. The Free Space of the Essos Republic extended languidly beside Westeros, and the vastly unexplored reaches of Sothoryos space lay beyond that.

A thousand thousand stars and more glittered just beyond his fingertips, hanging before him in utter silence.

Sandor Clegane watched and waited.


	2. Two

“Baby brother.”

He was sitting cross-legged in a sea of grass, cracked and yellow from the two-pronged assault of drought and the scorching autumn sun. The blades protested in a chorus of dry wheezes underneath the heavy footfalls behind him.

“You’ve fucked up now.”

He let his head loll backwards, like an overripe fruit on a stem that was far too thin. His heartbeat thrummed faster, more akin to a frightened rabbit’s than a man’s. Gregor shook his massive, craggy head in disappointment. “You’ve always fucked up. You don’t know how to do anything but fuck up.”

Gregor squatted, his cybernetic Knight’s greaves creaking slightly from the strain. His grey eyes seemed darker, but that was just an illusion. He knew that if you could just remove the heavy brow ridge above them, their eyes would be the same.

“How long can you run, Little Hound, before I catch up to you?”

 _I don’t know_.

Gregor scoffed. “You don’t know anything. Stupid and weak. I’m glad I burned you so everyone could see how useless you are. Go on, run. Run for your little life.”

And so he ran, his feet kicking up dust and waves of desiccated grass corpses. His lungs burned from the exertion, but he kept running because ohfuckGregor. He snapped his head around to see how much distance he had put between them. His heart surged in triumph. Gregor was nowhere to be seen.

He turned around just in time to smash the entirety of his face into Gregor’s plate-covered chest. He let out a keening groan as blood started to spurt out of his nose. Impossibly tall, Gregor reached down and hauled him into the atmosphere by the collar of his shirt. “Too slow.”

Gregor flung him down towards the earth. He tumbled for what seemed to be an eternity before hitting the earth. The heavy impact knocked the air from his lungs and cracked his ribs. Unable to restrain himself, he spat up a frothy mixture of blood and saliva. There was no time to dwell on his wounds. He scrambled away on his hands and knees, only to crawl onto Gregor’s blood-stained sabatons. “When will you learn, Sandor?”

He clutched at the dirt, grabbed a fistful, and threw it where Gregor’s eyes should have been, before turning to run away again.

Gregor was already in front of him once more. An armored foot flipped him onto his back. Gregor straddled him the way he used to straddle him when they wrestled in the yard during their younger years. Gregor would always win, and would force Sandor to proclaim him ruler of the Seven Kingdoms before letting him up. That stopped after Gregor was thrown off a hover bike and got a nasty head injury; he started getting headaches, started getting mean.

“You can’t escape me. You’ll never escape me. You’re pathetic.

“I’m going to find you, baby brother.”

Gregor placed his mailed hand against the unburnt side of his face. The intermittent glow of the LED monitors on the inside of Gregor’s forearm pulsed softly with the building heat. His eyes went wide with terror. _No, no, please no…!_

“I’m going to finish what I started years ago,” Gregor boomed dispassionately, even as those thrice-damned eyes blazed with malice.

“Are you ready?”

He thrashed and thrashed, but to no avail. Gregor released the control module and fire exploded out of his gauntlet. The soft flesh on the good side of his face hissed and bubbled and he screamed.

 

* * *

 

 

A cool hand on his shoulder brought him back into reality. He whipped around, unthinking, but managed to hold back his wild haymaker a quarter of an inch before the little bird’s nose. She stood rigid, a frightened deer caught between the urge to fight or flee. His breath came out as an aggressive _ksss_ from between gritted teeth. She snatched her hand back as he withdrew his fist. “What do you want?” He growled, pushing the strings of sweat-drenched hair out of his face. He couldn’t possibly give less of a shit for her delicate sensibilities.

“Beg your pardon se— my lord—”

“What. The fuck. Do you _want_ , stupid girl? I’m not in the mood for your pretty words. Keep them to yourself.”

She flinched as if she had been slapped. Her brow furrowed, eyes beginning to glisten with fresh tears. He suspected that her irises were the color they were from being a reservoir for all of the tears produced on a maddeningly regular basis; if she ever learned to grow a pair, maybe they would drain and become stormy like a true Stark.

“I only… If you…” She fidgeted pathetically. “Where is the privy?”

“Second door on the left.” He spun his chair around to face the console and booted up the star map.

“My lord?”

“What?”

“Are sonics really that… sanitary?”

He snorted. “Don’t have to worry about that. Stranger’s rigged with an H2O system.”

He heard the rustle of fabric, then the soft _tap-tap-tap_ of her retreating footsteps. The privy door gasped open down the hall, and then clicked twice, indicating that it was closed and locked. He allowed a nasty grin to split his face. Sonics. She was alone in deep space with a strange man and she was worried about _sonics_. High-born ladies never travelled on ships small enough or poor enough to not have expensive plumbing. Ill-born scum had to make do with sonic cleansing, as water was a precious commodity on long hauls. Filtration systems could only take so much, after all. Sonic cleansing wasn’t that bad; you stood in a small, usually rectangular, compartment— or stuck your hands between two plates— and the device would use sound waves to slough off any dirt or grime. The maesters claimed it removed as much bacteria as normal hand-washing, if not more, but there was something about looking at a dun-colored pile of one’s dead skin that gave one a feeling of complete and utter disgust. So he had, against his usual pragmatism, used part of his tourney winnings to upgrade Stranger with a proper plumbing system and subordinate water reservoir.

He leaned on the console and massaged his temples. A dull throbbing had begun its familiar tattoo of pain in between his ears. The caffeine tabs hadn’t helped at all. _Fuck. When did I fall asleep_? he thought.  It could not have been terribly long, due to the lack of numbness in his arms upon waking up. He tried not to linger on the fact that he had come so close to punching the little bird in the face. His first instinct was to blame her for startling him, but if he had been in such a miserable state as to be snuck up on by a small girl, he was the one truly at fault. It was of no moment, however. He didn’t actually hit her, and there were more important things to occupy his thoughts.

Between all of his maneuvering in the Blackwater and the distance covered thus far, Stranger’s fuel level had dropped to 78%. The engine itself was running at 99% efficiency; he had had it tuned up after the bread riots, so that was to be expected. The CO2 scrubbers were working at maximum efficiency as well, and the maintenance drone detected no weaknesses in the ship’s circuitry. His major concerns were the amount of fuel and the level of his food stores. If he were the only person aboard, it wouldn’t be such a problem, but taking into account the feeding of another body cut his estimations by one-half at the highest, one-fifth at the least. He was leaning towards half, considering that she was not done growing. While he knew that females were different, his own ravenous experience led him to err on the side of caution.

He tweaked the view on the star map to disregard any of the potential ports within the Gold Galaxy. Dozens of tags still hovered just beyond his hands. Rosby was the nearest port, and one he was familiar with. He reached out and dragged it from the map to a red box at the base of the display. Rosby was too close to King’s Landing to risk.

Maidenpool caught his attention. There would be plenty of supplies to be found on the Trident world, and they could take the freighter route along the Red Fork nebula straight to Riverrun. If, that is, he was planning on returning the little bird to her mother’s arms. It would be the right thing to do, the _honorable_ thing to do. His expression soured at the thought. _Fuck that. I took her fair and square._ He didn’t adhere to the wildlings’ barbaric practice of stealing their wives, yet he felt a queer sense of possessiveness. If he returned her to her brother and righteous mother, the most he could expect was a sack of gold creds and half-hearted gratitude before they kicked him to the curb, probably selling her off to the highest bidder. He had saved her from the lions’ den, but he was not so unselfish as to give her away without getting what he wanted first.

With that in mind, he dragged Stoney Sept into the box as well. It was less accessible than the other options, being surrounded by a massive ring of asteroids, and closer to Lannister territory than was ideal.

There was always the Isle of Faces Nebula to consider, but that was a last resort. It contained no hospitable planets that anyone knew of, and the high concentration of dark matter made it next to impossible to navigate through. If the stories were to be believed, one’s star map would give an estimated arrival time of three standard days to the nearest star, but a week would pass, and one wouldn’t find one’s self any closer. No, if he was going to go into the Isle of Faces, it would be with a pack of missiles up his ass.

He briefly thought about going towards the Reach Galaxy. Plenty of wine to be had there, and fewer Lannister cronies. But there was the pretty boy Tyrell and the legion of handsome knights that pranced around him. He wasn’t worried about losing her to that Petyr-puffer, but the cult of man-children he seemed to cultivate was too inclined towards gallantry for his tastes. He could not afford to risk losing the little bird if he was overwhelmed by a band of would-be Serwyns seeking to slay a real-life Urrax. He laughed at his apparent cowardice inwardly. _Damn me if you’re not becoming soft in your old age, Dog_ , he smirked to himself.

He dragged the Reach into the red folder, as well as the entirety of the Sand Galaxy. He would be as welcome in the Dorne System as he would be in King’s Landing.

The privy door gasped open again, bringing with it the increasingly loud footfalls of the little bird’s approach. She sat daintily in the Navigator’s chair, her feet tucked beneath her, hands folded in her lap with all the demureness of her good breeding. A side glance revealed that her eyes were fixed upon her hands. She was wearing the same dusty gown from before, and her hair hung in dripping cords around her face. He waited to see if she would speak first, making it seem as though he were busy by idly fiddling with the star map.

The samite of her dress rustled with her impatient shuffling, but she continued her excruciating politeness. He rolled his eyes. “What?”

“May I have my bag, s— my lord?”

“Should be in the first cargo hold.”

“Where might I find that?”

“Same place you can stick your courtesies.”

“I don’t understand…”

“Next to the shitter.”

He laughed as her face flushed a bright red. She stood abruptly and left the cockpit to retrieve her knapsack. He grinned his ugly grin before turning back to the console. It was often a chore to find things to pass one’s time while on long hauls through space; one often ran out of books to read or games to play (if one was lucky enough to have ship mates). He comforted himself with the fact that, at the very least, he could amuse himself by fucking with her for the present.

She returned naught but fifteen minutes later with a new dress and her mane tamed. She sat with a huff, placing her bag at the base of the seat between her crossed ankles. “You needn’t be so rude.”

“Dogs don’t sing sweetly like little birds do,” he dragged several major planets, including the Eyrie and the Bloody Gates into the green box of potential destinations, next to Riverrun and Maidenpool.

“May I ask what you’re doing, my lord?” She punctuated the title.

If she was making gibes, she either had yet to realize the precariousness of her situation, or had done so and was using her courtesies to hide the extent of her fear. He guessed the former. His nose wasn’t as good off-world, but he was almost certain he would be able to catch the stench of her fear regardless. In lieu of his growing headache, he decided to humor her. “I’m plotting out places to possibly go.”

“Will we be going North or to Riverrun?” If she was making an attempt at hiding her eagerness, it was a poor one.

“Don’t know yet.”

“Why not?”

“Pardon me, _my lady_ , I’ve forgotten about the teleportation device in the cargo hold,” He sneered. “All of the Riverland system is a battlefield right now. Stranger and I can handle our fair share, but one Courser-class ship and a Dog can’t handle entire fleets. I’m not going to kill myself just to return you to your nest within a week.”

“Oh,” she said in a small, defeated tone. He clamped down on that minute vibration in is heartstrings. She would have to learn eventually. Better that it be with him where she could nurse her continuing disappointments into the sheets (his sheets) than under Trant and Blount’s mailed fists. He turned again and fixed her with a penetrating glare. She stiffened, and swallowed the bitterness clogging her throat.

“Sing.”

“Gentle mother, font of mercy—”

He stared at her, unblinking, as the tears rose behind her lashes like pikemen at a palisade. She finished her song at a dynamic so soft it was just within his realm of perception. “Another.”

“The Father’s face is stern and strong, he sits and judges right from wrong…”

He pulled his gaze from her and back to the main console. At his behest, the central database retrieved data on the major docking sites he had added to his list. There were hundreds of little way stations between all of their potential destinations; it would be possible to make it to either Riverrun or the Bloody Gates without visiting any of the major ports by hopping from way station to way station, but that opened up a completely different can of worms. The more places they docked, the greater the chance they would be recognized. At least on the larger planets they could blend in with the crowd.

“Just close your eyes, you shall not fall, they see you, little children.” She completed her second song.

“So all the gods get their verse except for the only one that actually exists. Typical.”

He closed the database and turned to take in her appearance completely. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a loose queue, and was still damp; making it a shade he would call ‘mostly congealed blood.’ Her dress was an older one, evidenced by the flash of ankle and the low dive of the square neckline. She cowered beneath his gaze. He hoped she was beginning to realize the consequences of her actions. “Aye, you’re nearly a woman now. Looks to be you’re about ready to start breeding a whole pack of screaming brats. Oh you don’t like that?”

Her expression twisted with the effort of concealing her distaste.

“It’s true though, isn’t it? That’s all you’ve been trained to do. Your brothers were taught to be killers, you were taught to sing your pretty songs and lay back and think of the Seven, huh?”

“I’m— that’s not—”

“That’s not for you? Might’ve been something that wild thing you called a sister could say, if she’s not a bowl of brown by now. But you—” He couldn’t help but laugh to try to quell the bass drum of pain in his head. “—what can you do? What can you possibly do but parade about your pretty face and chirp?”

She opened her mouth to reply, her face fully contorted with anger, but he interrupted her. “No. You’re not _thinking_. Give it some real thought, instead of repeating the bullshit you think I want to hear.”

She clamped her mouth shut and glared at the floor between them.

 “Look at me.”

She refused.

“Look at me!”

He reached out and pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her face upwards. She stared through him as a tear trekked its way down curve of her nose. “You’re not looking, little bird.”

“I hate you.”

He released her, and she immediately fled to the captain’s quarters, leaving her bag behind. The door clicked behind her. He sighed and rubbed at his temples. Flakes of dried blood dusted his lap. He hadn’t bothered to shower after the sortie. Musing upon such excellent timing, the Hound rose from the pilot’s seat and headed into the privy.

He pressed the necessary series of keys on his left ribs, and his bodysuit peeled away like a second layer of skin. He picked up the heavy suit from the floor and deposited it into the sonic receptacle underneath the sink. Such devices would destroy normal clothing, but were perfect for cleaning gore off bits of armor. He soon flooded the privy with steam from the heat of the water. In all honesty, he preferred his showers to be cooler, but lukewarm water didn’t fog up the mirrors enough to spare him from looking at his damaged face.

 _Trapezius, deltoid, pectoralis, serratus, oblique_ , he named off the muscles as the water coursed down his body. He leaned his head against the shower wall, allowing the cold radiating off the thin porcelain to sooth his aching skull. The Hound held his hand out for the automatic dispenser to provide him with soap, ignoring the scent of female as he lathered away the grime. They would go to Maidenpool. If he didn’t make a decision by then, they’d go to Saltpans, providing he resisted the urge to throttle her long enough. It wouldn’t matter which way he chose to go afterwards. Maidenpool was halfway to Riverrun, halfway to the Eyrie, and bordering the stretch of dead space they called the Narrow Sea. He could ransom her to mother or aunt, or flee to the Free Cities. It wouldn’t matter. Nothing mattered in the end.

 


	3. Three

            A deep thrumming cocooned him in a sheer nest of vibration. The sound surrounded and penetrated his very being, wrapping around his sternum and setting it to shivering. Waves of moist heat washed over his body. He wiped away the sleep gumming up his eyelids with cracked knuckles. His mouth was dry and rancid with the taste of stale wine. He fumbled around his immediate person, feeling for a flask of wine that had anything more than a swallow left. In the end, it was a fruitless search.

            The beat of pain in his head had been doused by the torrent of wine he poured down his throat after showering. Responsibility had suggested he choke down more caffeine tabs with a swish of diluted poppy’s milk; he heartily ignored it in favor of several flasks full of Arbor red. It was, most certainly, one of the more fool-hardy things he could have done at the time (third behind crashing Stranger into a comet and overriding the locking mechanism to the captain’s cabin) yet he accepted such irresponsibility. In the space of twenty hours, he had betrayed his life-long masters and kidnapped a highborn maiden. That she was willing made no difference. What was one more lump in a veritable sea of shit?

He pushed away the empty containers and curled closer to the reactor’s containment field generator. The humming vibrated his entire body in infinitesimal shakes, wiping his mind clean, for a sweet moment, of anything but the buzz of muted nuclear fusion. Ordinarily, the sheer heat given off by a reactor would drive him as far away from it as possible do to his (very rationally derived) psychological hang-ups. The cooling barrier between the containment fields made the engine bay especially humid. For a multitude of reasons, he found he could tolerate damp heat far better than dry heat—providing, of course, that he wasn’t sheathed in heavy armor.

A foreign sound reached his now-alert ears. He tuned his focus towards the sound, noting how well it blended with the toneless pitch of the reactor.

“— _miserator et justus_ —”

The Hound gathered the empty flasks and rose from the floor, exiting the engine bay through the veil of hot air. He placed the flasks on a shelf in the secondary cargo hold and padded towards the source of the melody on bare feet. Barring the quiet swish of his thin cotton slacks, he kept his stride silent.

The little bird was seated in the gunner’s chair, to the left of the captain. Her voice rolled trippingly up and down the melodic line in a cascade of crystalline notes. Her knees were pulled into her chest and clasped there by her slim arms. A soft wrinkle was formed in her cheek, allowing the grey silk covering her knee to flow in. Her dress hid the underside of her thighs from view— something that made him, at once, frustrated and delighted. She continued singing without acknowledging his presence. Perhaps she had not noticed he was there at all. It was entirely possible; she was not trained to be so acutely _aware_ of everything that was going on, and he doubted that her genetic code expressed any of the odd mutations that the Stark line was rumored to carry. He was not in the habit of excusing others’ perceived faults, however. Natural selection was a cheeky, unforgiving bitch. Encouraging such behavior in one’s comrades never turned out well in the end, for any of the parties involved. Commanders would find their orders unfulfilled and their ambitions dashed to pieces, while their subordinates became acquainted with the pleasantries of having their innards become their out-ards.

He sat, unabashedly open-legged towards her, in the captain’s chair, causing her to cut off her song mid-note. The gunner’s seat was facing the console, its darkly phallic joysticks and missile pad jutting out in contrast to the white smoothness before the captain and Navigator. Her face was in profile, though only her cheek and nose peeked through her curtain of loosely bound hair.

He grabbed the arm of her chair and swiveled her around. She kept her pose in spite of the sudden movement. He tipped her chin up lightly, noting that it was the first time he had done so without a barrier of metal between their fleshes. Yet again, she stared straight through him. A white-hot bar of rage shot up his clavicle and along his esophagus. He swallowed to keep the heat from drying out the saliva in his mouth.

“The little bird sings in Valyrian?” he could not keep the drunken slur from his voice.

She nodded against his thumb and forefinger.

“So they tried to fill your head with an education besides all that Knightly bullshit,” he dropped his hand and she immediately lowered her gaze. “Finish.”

She complied. Despite his drunkenness, he suspected he heard an offended twist in the delivery of the higher notes. Regardless, the song was rendered beautifully; her voice shifted fluidly between octaves where it was obvious another singer was supposed to carry the melody. He thought back to his boyhood lessons, recalling how Gregor would become frustrated with trying to conjugate the numerous verb tenses, and chose to bully the family’s master into letting them play outside instead. He regretted now trading any sort of proficiency with the language for a few more tumbles with his then-sane brother.

“That slow part, what’s it mean?”

A nervous look crossed her face. “‘Good is the man who is full of compassion and lends. He will guide his—’ _sermones_ … ‘— He will guide his affairs with discretion, for he will never be moved, and the righteous will be remembered forever.’”

“‘The righteous will be remembered forever,’” he smirked. “And who determines _righteousness_? Weak little lambs like you?”

“The Gods do.”

The Hound sniggered. “Stupid little bird, I thought you’d have learned by now. How righteous are your gods when they allowed your precious father to be killed in front of you?”

She glared up at him resentfully through a haze of unshed tears.

“You’re a liar.”

His curiosity perked its ears. “How do you figure?”

“You promised that you’d kill anyone that hurt me.” Her bottom lip shuddered.

“Aye.”

“You’re not dead. Therefore, you lied.” She buried her face in her knees.

He barked a nasty laugh. “So you’ve got claws after all. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, since you hate me and all? I asked you a question. Hey.”

Her shoulders were trembling, but she made no noise. The tang of salt ground against the roof of his nose and dragged jagged teeth across his soft palate. He burrowed his fingers between her knees, using them to pry her face back into the harsh white light. Her eyes were red-rimmed and gushing tears.

“Do you want me to die?” He asked, his voice low and razor-edged.

“I _want_ to go home!” She sobbed.

His chest twisted. A memory, faint and long-ignored, pushed forward. There was a gangly wreck of a boy at Casterly Rock. His father and sister were freshly murdered, his granddad long dead, and the place he once called ‘home’ was lost to him. Weak and friendless, he had found a corner that was not often frequented and vented his frustrations. Days on the Rock could not ease his innate fear that Gregor would hear his tears and beat him, so he muffled his cries and wept in silence. _I want to go home._ There was no home to go back to anymore.

He sighed while removing his hand. The Hound left her to her grief and went, instead, into the primary cargo hold. He dodged around the pile of carbon steel and tungsten-carbide armor to reach the larder. In truth, it was little more than a repurposed trunk stuffed to the brim with soldier’s rations. Each ration was an individually wrapped cube, and contained a day’s worth of d-comped calories, optimized for energy expenditure in the field. The wrapping doubled as a tray for the food, and could be used as tinder as well, if the environment necessitated it. Ordinarily, one would run the risk of getting fat with such caloric-rich rations, but the Hound was careful not to lapse into the sedentary lifestyle of the average spacer while off-world.

He grabbed a cube at random, found another that matched it in color, and stuck them into the cooking apparatus attached to the wall. He shut the apparatus’ door and closed his eyes against the flash emitted from the decompression process. The apparatus whirred as it applied the precise amount of water required to rehydrate the rations. A sharp _ping_ announced that the rations had been heated and were ready for consumption.

He removed the trays from the apparatus, revealing two sizzling capon thighs, with buttered rice and steamed vegetables on the side. A lucky draw, to be sure, even considering that the rations he had stocked up were far superior to the usual fare the infantry units were stuck with. It was only to be expected; one did not hold a station of military prestige without taking advantage of the perks that came with it.

With the trays in one arm and a new flask in the other, he left the cargo hold. He returned to the cockpit and found that the little bird had managed to rein in her sobs. She glanced at the food hungrily, placing her hand over her stomach when it gave out a dainty growl. He chuckled. “Not all of the little bird’s songs are pretty.”

He slid one tray to her across the console. She gave him a sideways look, her brow furrowed with uncertainty. He drank deeply from the flask while pulling two sets of wrapped utensils from his pocket. After a second’s calculations, he tossed the set with a fork and knife in it next to her tray. She flinched— sending a brief strum across his heart— then murmured her gratitude before cutting into the capon. He was left with a fork and spoon; more than enough for a beast like him to tear apart a dead bird. He unwrapped the fork from its casing, and dug into the side items. With one hand, he punched a series of commands into the central intelligence unit. The main display lit up with an artful, if sketchy, animation of a black stallion trotting over a loading bar. As the percentage increased, the stallion went from trot to canter to full-on gallop. Because it used a huge chunk of the total computing power, he usually kept the CIU’s AI offline to free up space for the combat and autopilot AIs. They weren’t in a combat situation anymore and the CIU’s AI had a piloting module, so it made more sense to hibernate the latter and wake the former.

The loading bar reached 100%, making the stallion rear onto his hind legs and toss his mane. <Query: how may I serve?> came that lazy, Southron drawl.

“Boot up the nav system and star map, Stranger,” he replied around a mouth full of rice.

<Command received. Executing nsys.exe, estrel.exe. Action complete. Awaiting further orders.>

He stared at the glowing map, making note of their position. “What’re the nearest ports, standard time?”

<Response: According to projected fuel and engine efficiency, Rosby is one-point-three days away, Duskendale five days, Maidenpool eleven-point-two days.>

“Eleven-point-two my ass!”

<Sincere apology: those are the estimates provided, based on the fuel and solar wind forecasts, you fuck.>

The little bird gasped. “I thought AI didn’t curse.”

“They do if you program them to,” he stabbed the hunk of capon with his fork and began tearing off pieces with his teeth.

“Why would you program one to do that?”

“Because it’s more interesting that way.”

He suppressed a smile at the wrinkling of her nose. She wouldn’t want any of his pretty smiles. “I need a way station, Stranger.”

<Query: do you have any specifications besides distance?>

He thought for a moment while chewing a sliver of asparagus. “Give priority to any farming rocks, but nothing too close to Rosby.”

<Understood. Processing…>

“You put anything useful in that bag?”

“Nothing of value to you, ser.”

He bared his teeth. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“You picked a shitty time to have your balls drop. You can tell me what’s in the bag, or I could go rifle through it myself. Your choice.”

A part of him hoped she would call his bluff, if only to give him cause to get his paws into her smallclothes in the only way he could. He had already admitted to himself that he wouldn’t—couldn’t rape her. Coercion though… that didn’t count, did it?

Unfortunately, she was suitably cowed by his threat.

“Ah, four dresses, my jewelry, a sewing kit, some data disks, a few dragons, and… and a doll.”

The burned side of his face twitched. He gritted his teeth, trying to restrain himself from snapping at her. “It didn’t occur to you to grab something more _useful_ than a doll? A pair of pants, maybe?” He hissed.

“I gave them all to Arya because they didn’t fit anymore! And my father gave me the doll before he—” Her voice was strangled by tears.

“Seven hells, do you ever stop crying?!”

<Processing complete. In order, there is CR-582, KS-664, JOS-422, SI-976—>

“KS-664’s a mining community.”

<Affirmative. KS-664 is a way station that orbits a moon of a planet in the same solar system as Rosby. CR-582 is also in the same system, but its proximity to Rosby is less than desirous, according to your specifications.>

“Set course for 664.”

<Command received. Estimated time of arrival: fourteen hours.>

They finished eating in silence, but for the scraping of their cutlery against the trays. He stacked the remnants of their meal and dumped them into the waste receptacle built into the wall next to the Navigator. The Hound leered at his captive openly, letting his vision track along the growing curves of her form slowing. She squirmed under his gaze. “What?” She crossed her arms over her chest, highlighting the growth of her breast.

“You don’t look like a spacer.”

“And?”

“A little chirping bird in this part of space will look suspicious, especially if her feathers are as pretty as yours.”

She flushed. “So what are you planning on doing?”

“Stand up on that red spot.” He pointed to the circle in question, right in the center of the cockpit.

“Here?”

He nodded. “Stranger, perform a scan.”

<Command received. Executing. Subject to be identified as…?>

“S-Sansa Stark,” she called out.

<Subject: Sansa Stark, of House Stark from Planet Winterfell in the Northern System of the North Galaxy. Height 66 inches, weight 112 pounds, bust-waist-hip size is 32 to 21 to—>

“Is this really necessary?” She cried out and blushed even brighter.

<Permission to log information?>

“Granted.”

“What are you going to do?”

He rose from his seat. “Stranger, entertain _Lady Stark_. Security clearance level 4.”

<Command received.>

“What are you going to do?” She stood in his path, her chin lifted defiantly.

“Make you into a spacer.” He grabbed her shoulders and moved her, not ungently, out of his way. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

The Hound entered his quarters, though he left the door open. Stranger was smart enough to alert him of any anomalies, bird-caused or otherwise, but he felt more at ease having an extra ear open. He stripped off his muscle shirt and let it drop onto the floor. The bed, with its damned rich sheets, was calling a siren song to him. He could do nothing but obey.

He crawled into the center of the soft mattress and burrowed his face in the pillows. A deep inhale brought the scent of the female in his cockpit curling around his sinuses. Sweet lemon and honey and sweat and _female_ filled his lungs. It all came rushing out when he was unable to hold his breath any longer, and he found himself breathing in more and more rapidly to bring it back. With each breath, he felt his cock become harder. He fisted the sheets in one hand, slipped the other under the waistband of his pants. He looked over his shoulder at the open door. It would be interesting to see the little bird’s response if she caught him stroking his septon. Would be the first time she’d see a cock; he had seen to that himself.

 _You’re a sick fuck, dog_.

He pulled his hand out of his crotch. With a huff, he turned over and pulled the pillow that was more drenched in her scent into his chest. A long copper thread gleamed in front of his nose. He watched the light play off of the strand of hair, lulling him to sleep with promises of heatless flame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the wait hasn't been too long. Your encouragement and criticism is greatly appreciated.
> 
> The song that Sansa sings is taken from Monteverdi's "Beatus Vir". (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IPNZeT_7OR4)


	4. Four

“… Stranger?”

<Query: how may I serve?>

“What are the limits of my security clearance?”

<Due to the constraints of the Level 4 programming, I am unable to vocalize the exact extent of your permissions. I am able to respond to specific inquiries only.>

“Why?”

<That is how the captain programmed me, meatbag.>

“That’s not a very polite way to address someone.”

<Insincere apology: the captain seems to find such language humorous. I continue to speak so to facilitate mental well-being, as directed by the Holistic Protocol.>

“What is that?”

<The Holistic Protocol states that any entity possessing artificial intelligence is charged with maintaining the health and well-being of the organics it serves in the realms of physical, mental, social, and emotional.>

“Then… could I request that you not be as rude with me?”

<Command received. Lady Stark.>

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

 

He drifted on a lake of nothingness. White light danced across his closed eyelids, sharp and cool. Impossibly long strands of silky hair served as his bed and his raft. The filaments shifted in a thousand tiny movements beneath him.

Some viscous liquid smacked against his cheek. He brought his fingers to the unburnt side of his face. Prying his eyes open, he saw that his fingertips were stained the color of blood. His tongue darted out the side of his mouth to taste the liquid trailing down the side of his face. It was woody and bitter— sap maybe? Another spat of the liquid struck his face, then his chest. He drew his sight away from his hand and towards the sky.

A massive, ashen face with a wealth of wrinkles seemed to be carved out of the white sky. Blood red tears oozed out the corners of its eyes, though the lids were screwed up shut. He gaped at the face while its features began to morph, twisting and stretching from its passive benevolence into… _No, no, no, no, don’t_ … he chanted as the taste in his mouth turned into copper.

Gregor opened his eyes, with red-stained sclera, and grinned. “Baby brother.”

Gregor began to sink down from the sky, mouth wide-open and poised to swallow him whole. Frantic, he pulled the raft of auburn hair around his body, and waited to die with her scent in his nose.

 

* * *

 

 

“Is there any news about my brother?”

<Specifications needed. Do you mean to inquire after Robb Stark, Brandon Stark, Rickon Stark, or Jon Snow?>

“Robb. Please.”

<Processing… Processing… I am unable to detect any relevant waves at this time.>

“What about the battle?”

<Processing… Based on the majority of intercepted waves, I can conclude that Stannis Baratheon’s forces were defeated.>

“How can that be?”

<Puzzled response: I do not know. Conclusive reports have not been released yet. I am receiving numerous waves that speak of the ghost of Renly Baratheon, as well as several conspiracy theories that say King Joffrey’s victory is a false one. However, most of these waves are coming from pirate stations and are disreputable at best.>

“…”

<Query: are you all right, Lady Stark?>

“Yes… yes, I’m fine. I was just hoping…”

<Based on current vital signs, I can conclude that you are distressed. It is within my capabilities to offer psychological counseling.>

“… Could an AI lie?”

<It is possible to program one to give falsehoods, however the chances of doing so are slim. A considerable amount of skill and knowledge within the fields of psychology and coding are required for the programmer, as well as a significant amount of computing power for the AI. The three fields rarely overlap.>

“I see… Would the Hound be able to do it, theoretically?”

<The probability of his successful execution, given the data that has been collected, is 0.463 repeating.>

“…”

<Would you like to proceed with counseling?>

“…Could we play cyvasse instead?”

<Joking response: I believe the better question is ‘can I handle defeat?’>

“I warn you, ser, I’ll not go down easily.”

<Very well. Executing cyvs.exe…>

 

* * *

 

He was in the Keep’s sept. The cold stone bit into his raw knees, but it was a welcome pain. After his burns had crusted over and healed into uncomfortably tight scars, he would sneak into the sept at night and rest his face against the floor, as if the cool stone could somehow eat away the heat and reverse the damage that had been done.

He lay naked on the floor, his cock small and shriveled as it receded into the shelter of his body. The sept was thrown into harsh relief by the opposing blaze of blue-flamed candles lit before the carved image of the Stranger, and an inferno resting before the Maiden.

The Hound rolled up onto his haunches. He stared, shivering, into the plethora of flickering blue tongues, and exhaled. A puff of fog curled out with his breath.

The light shifted suddenly. He whipped around to face the Maiden, backing up towards the heatless Stranger as he did so. The Maiden’s flame burned brighter; in her light, he was able to see the Crone and the Mother glaring down at him in deprecation. The inferno rose, stepped down from the altar, and began approaching him slowly.

_Stay back!_

The flames receded upwards, exposing the nude form of his little bird as they went. Her hair remained a conflagration, and tumbled down her back; embers spiraled outward as the fire licked her shoulder blades. She smiled while extended her hands towards him. “I could keep you safe. No one would burn you again, or I’d kill them.”

_You’re a damn liar._

“Am I? Come. Heel.”

Against his will, his feet shuffled across the gritty stone. She cupped her hands against his cheeks. Her flesh was preternaturally hot, and covered in a fine sheen of golden sweat. “A dog will never lie to you, and a wolf is better than a dog.”

She drew his face down towards hers. Her lips parted. The inside of her mouth glowed like a forge and he, unthinking, dodged away from her. She stumbled, her mouth becoming a perfectly glowing ‘O’ as she fell onto the Stranger’s altar.

He clapped his hands over his ears, trying in vain to block out her piercing shrieks as the blue flames consumed her.

 

* * *

 

 

He woke in a cold sweat. The satin sheets were firmly plastered onto his back, and made an unpleasant squelching noise when he yanked them away.

“Stranger,” he called.

<Vitals are as follows: heart rate 98 beats per minute. Blood pressure 128 over 90. Blood-alcohol content at 0.03. Detecting beginning signs of dehydration. Captain is advised to stop being a pussy and drink plenty of water.>

“What’s the girl doing?”

<Amused response: She just woke from a nap. We are discussing musical theory currently.>

“She ask after the battle?”

<Affirmative. I disclosed as much information as authorized.>

“Good.”

<Awaiting further orders.>

He sat at the edge of the bed, head in hands, trying to remember what he had dreamed that would set him so on edge. _Breathe, dog_. He fell into the familiar exercise that had been drilled into him at the age of five. Out through the mouth, in through the nose. Rinse and repeat.

The thudding in his chest subsided after some time, becoming no more than an imperceptible throb on the sides of his neck. <Heart rate and blood pressure have dropped to 56 beats per minute and 110 over 74, respectively.>

“ETA?”

<We are 20 minutes away from KS-664. I have taken the liberty of sending a hail and receiving docking permissions under the guise of refueling. I hope that is acceptable.>

“Wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t, you bag of bolts,” he chided affably as he stripped off his pants.

<Quite right, captain. Permission to speak freely?>

“Granted.”

<Lady Stark is demonstrating noticeable levels of stress. It might be wise to share some information with her to assuage her fears.>

“ ‘Lady’ Stark? What I do with her is none of your concern.”

<Affirmative. I only thought to mention it due to the Holistic Protocol you saw fit to leave in my coding.>

“Fly the fucking ship.”

<Command received.>

The Hound padded across the room to the wardrobe and slid open the doors. He yanked out a polymer body suit and slid it on, hissing in pain when the skintight material pressed against the bouquet of bruises that had bloomed since the Blackwater. Much as he loathed going into strange territory without his full armor, his normal regalia would be a dead giveaway on a mining rock. Better to risk being underprotected in the event a fight broke out than to screw the pooch from the get go. Most mineral jockeys didn’t carry around vibros or the kind of weapon that could cut through Knightly armor anyway; some of the material that they worked with was too volatile, and their colleagues too stupid to be trusted. It was more likely that he would encounter run-of-the-mill steel knives or furniture repurposed to be blunt weapons. There was still the chance that some idiot would have some laser-based ranged weapon (bow or crossbow, didn’t matter); those would suck absolute cock to take on in his light armor. But it couldn’t be helped.

He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and then flexed each of the remaining muscles groups in turn to assure that the suit had stretched properly. His balls were stuck awkwardly to the inside of his thigh. He groped himself for a minute, trying to shift his genitals into a position where they wouldn’t chafe against his leg. “Fucking spacers,” he muttered while longing for the loose-fitting crotch of his kevlar-tungsten suit.

He looked side-long at the bed, and thought on whether he should get the sheet laundered properly while they were on terra firma. The burned side of his face twitched. He recalled a story one of the Lannister’s sell-swords told him during the Rebellion. “My girl, she’s a kinky bitch, she is. Makes me chop wood n’ shit, n’ then wants me to fuck her raw—with my clothes on, mind you— right before I leave. Says sleeping in my stinking clothes n’ the stinking sheets keeps her from wanting to fuck around. What a load of shit, eh?”

He knew from his perusals of several treatises on biology that females, on the whole, had better senses of smell than males, though he would not say that about most of the ones he had the displeasure of meeting. (In all fairness, his family had a predisposition for being super smellers; he had found that out, long after his granddad had died, during a stretch of boredom on the Rock; to think that the old man was so close to the truth all that time had brought a rush of pain that he had been both unable and unwilling to deal with.) Along with their heighted sense, females would judge a male’s worthiness as a mate through the pheromones in his sweat. That nasty grin crept onto his mouth again. If she was tired, let her sleep on his stinking sheets and, in familiarizing herself with his stench, have her body determine his viability.

He left the bedroom and its musky sheets for the privy, then went to the primary cargo hold. Making a note to organize it later, the Hound dug through the pile of armor in search of his only set of light equipment. He found the pair of reinforced boots first, slid them onto his legs, securing the protective plates at his knees, and tightened the buckles that ran up their sides. Next came the lamellar body armor with its reticulated ceramic plates, then the respective sheathes for his dagger and vibraknife that attached to the armor at his hips. It took a minute longer (and several curses) to find the final piece of the ensemble. At the bottom of the pile were two shining gauntlets of fine, castle-forged steel. He pulled them over his arms and fastened the straps for the elbow guards. The gauntlets gave a hollow cheep, then immediately adjusted to make a snug fit on his forearms and hands. Their color also dulled to match the wear on the rest of his armor.

The Hound looked at the LED panel on the inside of his left forearm. It displayed the charge in both gauntlets (full as expected), as well as an overview of his vitals. He tapped a quick series of buttons, then hissed in pain as the gauntlets’ implants pierced into his flesh. He flexed his fingers, and, when the integration was complete, released an arc of electricity into the air with a quick series of jabs. The conductive discs covering his knuckles crackled with residual energy.

The gauntlets, and proficiency with their use, were one of the marks of a high-class warrior, usually a Knight. They were expensive to forge, on the whole, though lesser-quality ones could be found on the Street of Steel in Kings Landing. Even if some idiot were to get a hold of one, there was no guarantee they would be able to handle the implantation process, let alone tap into the gauntlets’ latent power. Each set was different, beyond that; some would eject different materials (like Gregor’s hateful fire or the toxins that the Dornish Knights were known for), others would augment the natural strength and speed of the user (which were most often seen being used by Northern warriors). One could conceivably use two different types of augmentations, but most blacksmiths capable of forging them were jealous and fickle; their craft was highly specialized, and so it was not uncommon for them to include safeguards against using their competitors’ product with their own; whether that was through electrical malfunctions or having the gauntlet spew acid on its user was entirely up to the capriciousness of the smith.

He checked the LED display; the charge had dropped to 97%. It was getting close to the time when he would have to change out the power core, as evidenced by its current inefficiency. That was, however, much lower on his list of priorities.

<Executing docking procedures now, captain.>

“Send the girl’s dimensions to my comp. drive.”

<Command received.>

Pulling a black cloak around his shoulders, the Hound left the cargo hold, choosing to forgo a hot meal. Food in his guts would only slow him down. “—have to look at the chord structure. Where the diminished start coming in.”

<Does not compute.>

“Here, I’ll show you. Where’s that stylus?”

The little bird was perched in the Navigator’s seat again. Her hair was freshly groomed, and pulled away from her face into an intricate coil of braids at the apex of her skull. How she had managed such a hairstyle without assistance, he could not guess, but were he to hazard one, he would say it was probably done over a long period of time, during the hours he had been asleep.

The dress she was wearing was, thankfully, a practical Northern hunting gown in layered grey and white (though he suspected that was a sport she did not often engage in), and belted at the waist. The collar was high, robbing him of the opportunity to leer at her growing endowments. While the sleeves of the grey layer extended no further than the shoulder, the white sleeves clung to her arms and reached down to her wrists; the cuts allowed for freedom of movement while preserving modesty and body heat. The grey layer of her skirts were slit on the sides, whereas the white under layer was slit in the back and front, giving her the look of an odd, upside-down flower, and granting her increased maneuverability.

He peered over her shoulder to see what she was drawing on the console. Her hand whipped across the screen rapidly, moving back and forth between spots with no apparent rhyme or reason, but constantly filling in portions of… whatever it was. There were several groups of five lines, with all manners of seemingly-nonsensical dots and squiggles and bars. It looked like something he would have drawn a dick on and forgotten about in his younger years.

“Good morning, my lord,” she chirped without looking away, her hand flitting slower over the image. “I trust you slept well? Ah, there you are, Stranger.”

<Analyzing…>

A flood of music poured out of the ceiling. The tune was light and airy at first, but then gained a melancholic twist as it progressed. At first, he could not place the melody; the addition of the little bird’s humming made whatever piece was missing click into place. _Jenny of Oldstones_.

“You shouldn’t be distracting him,” he leaned over her to wipe away the score, and the music came to a choking halt.

She bowed her head in stiff deference. “Beg your pardon, my lord.”

_So it’s to be that way_ , he thought. A full belly would do wonders for one’s courage, it seemed.

<Docking complete. Creds have been transferred to the way station’s fuel depot. Fuel attendants are en route.>

“Hmph. Now’s as good a time as any,” he backed away from the console to stand in the center of the cockpit. “Come here, girl.”

She rose obediently.

“Right- or left-handed?”

“Ah, left, my lord. I can use my right well enough, though.”

“Cut the lordly shit,” he grabbed her dominant hand in his left and drew the vibraknife with his right.

He pushed the hilt into her palm and forced her fingers to curl around it with his own. Just a well calculated step or two, and he could have her tucked into his body. _Down, dog_! “The switch is here. Heat sinks are on the cross guard, so don’t move your fingers past it unless you’d like to melt them off. Anyone comes through that door, you stick them with it and scream.”

She stiffened. “You’re leaving me?”

He snorted. “And how would you explain a fine lady wandering around with such an ugly beast? No one with a decent set of eyes would mistake you for my pup. Best not to have to explain. The Lannisters know we’re both gone; they won’t know that I took you. Not yet.”

“But… I asked you to.”

“Won’t matter to them.”

He released her with some reluctance and pulled the cloak’s hood up over his head. The airlock doors gasped as they parted, showing the two fuel attendants that were waiting just beyond. His feet crossed the threshold, but were halted by her cry. “My lord!”

“What?”

“Um… it’s nothing. Never mind.”

He waved the doors shut behind him. The two attendants— stripling man-children with the beginning prickles of a man’s beard on their faces— were grinning at him. “That’s a pretty one you have there, ser. Perks of being a Knight, eh?” joked the one with a blazing swath of pimples across his face like boiling pig fat.

He snatched the attendant by the neck, applying pressure to the man-child’s trachea with his thumb. “Fuck your sers. Fill the tank. I find out you put any of that sludge you call protium in there, I’ll rip your throat out.”

He squeezed the kid’s throat once more for emphasis, then shoved him away. The other attendant glared at him resentfully, as he steadied his coughing friend. “You got something to say, boy?”

“No, milord.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The Hound left the attendants with his ship and headed towards the directory stationed at the head of the docking bay, past the small number of dismal ships in port. A large hologram of the mining compound rose, complete with color-coded areas and labels on the major points of interest. He scanned the list of merchants one the hologenerator’s podium, located one that would fit his needs, and made a bee-line to it.

 

* * *

 

 

A spritely chime accompanied his entrance into the shop. Racks of haz-mat and nuke-resistant suits littered the floor space. The walls were dominated by gloves and helmets and other accessories one might need for extracting ore. Behind a counter cluttered with a variety of mining-related knick-knacks, sat a grizzled old woman in a faded jumpsuit. Her silver-shot hair was pulled back from her prunish face in a severe bun. “What kin I do y’ fer?” The old woman asked in a voice marred by years of inhaling rock dust, looking him straight in the eye.

The bright side of dealing with rock jockeys was that they weren’t often startled by the appearance of his burns. Mining and refining ore was a dangerous business. The ones that were lucky enough to survive into their 40’s usually didn’t do so without vicious scars to show for it.

He popped the comp. drive out of his left gauntlet. “I need a suit and two sets of work clothes with these measurements.”

The old woman inserted the drive into a data pad attached to the counter. “Awful small, ain’t he— no… hips’re too wide. Yer daughter?”

His mind scrambled for an explanation. “My niece.”

 “Not often ye find girls in this part o’ space. Makes the men folk desperate. Ye’d better watch ‘er real close. Less she’s any good with a blaster!” The old woman chortled.

He felt his well of patience rapidly drain. “Do you have a suit or not?”

“Oh aye. Don’t git yer knickers in a twist just yet. She got any specialization?”

“Navigating.” The lie came effortlessly.

“Gimme a minute,” the old woman hopped off her stool and shuffled into the back room. “Don’t have anythin’ quite that small, but I kin zap somethin’ right quick.”

He rested his hand on the dagger at his hip while he surveyed the rest of the shop. Nothing particularly eye-catching was to be found, except…

“There y’ are,” the woman dumped two stacks of folded material on the counter. “Make sure she watches fer the prongs at the shoulders first time she puts on th’ suit.”

“How much for that?” He gestured towards the corner furthest away from the door.

“‘S not for sale,” she replied as she stuffed the clothes into a hessian sack.

“I didn’t ask if it was for sale or not. How much?”

“Belonged to m’ only daughter.”

“How. Much.”

“’S vintage, too. Y’ don’t see too many o’ that kinda wood still intact.”

“I won’t ask again.”

“A whole gold dragon. Solid. No creds.”

Sandor Clegane left the shop with a sack of clothing and a nine-course lute, feeling like a jack-ass. It was not that he was terribly hard up for solid currency; the Hand’s Tourney had seen to that. Something in his gut told him that the instrument in his hands was worth far less than a dragon. A few stags at the most.

His internal debate was interrupted by a page on his comm unit. “Stranger.”

<C-C-C-Captain must r-r-re-return. Malfunc- cannot defend- for-for-for- Lady St-St-arkkk->

He rushed back to the docking bay, completely ignoring his former adherence to being inconspicuous. Once inside, he slowed his pace enough to mute his footsteps. The rage had become a thick, black serpent dancing along his ribs while it constricted his rapidly beating heart. He ducked behind the ship closest to his own to assess the situation. There was no one else that he could detect within the bay itself, which was blessedly tiny anyway. The acoustics weren’t good for concealing screams, but his concern in that department was next to zero.

“This isn’t a good idea, Bryen. What if he comes back? I like my throat where it is!”

“Don’t be such a craven, Joss.”

“I’m not a craven!”

“Hey, in there! My coin’s as good as his! If you don’t let me in, I’ll just hack my way, and then you won’t get paid. You hear me, you little slut?”

“I really don’t like this. Come on, let’s just leave it.”

“You’re going to let that bastard get away with treating you like that? You are a craven. Go back to your daddy’s tavern and cry like a little bitch if you don’t like it.”

“Fine…”

He had heard enough. Leaving his purchases on the ground, the Hound advanced towards the two would-be rapists burrowed in the computer module next to the air lock. His gauntlet crackled with latent energy as the scent of ozone filled the air. The boys turned towards the sudden noise, and their faces contorted with terror. He shoved his fist into the boy—Bryen’s— gut, and released a torrent of electricity. Bryen tumbled to the ground in spasms, his mouth oozing foam. He stomped on the kid’s abdomen as he writhed, stopping only when he heard the sharp crack of broken ribs. Bloody froth poured out of Bryen’s mouth and nose. His spasms turned into fretful, keening twitches.

The Hound turned to the pimple-covered one, Joss, and approached, the conductive plates on his gauntlet sparking. The boy fell to his knees and cried for mercy. His jumpsuit turned dark at the crotch as piss ran down his leg. “Please ser, please! Don’t kill me! I didn’t want to and he made me!”

He grabbed the kid by his throat and hauled him up to eye-level. “My father owns the tavern; he’ll pay you, just please!” the boy croaked with what little air he had.

The Hound released a thread of electricity into Joss’ body. He dropped the temporarily paralyzed man-child on top of his quivering friend. His fingers flew across the access pad, punching in his code, and wrenched open the air lock doors in impatience. The little bird was standing just beyond, in the cockpit. She was gripping the activated vibraknife in both hands and visibly trembling, but was unharmed. He pushed past her and rebooted the entire system from the central console. He skimmed the logs of activity while the CIU finished booting up. “What the fuck, Stranger?” he exhaled through gritted teeth. “How in seven hells do you get taken out by a pair of script kiddies?”

<Embarrassed explanation: They used a program I’ve never encountered before to disable the weapons system. I was unable to get up a firewall in time.>

“I ought to slag your useless ass.”

<Humble agreement: it would be within your rights.>

“Please don’t,” the little bird whimpered from behind him. “He tried his best. He didn’t let them in. Please don’t kill him, my lord.”

He clenched his fists, then released, as he explored several options of what to do next. It was conceivable that they could just up and leave, but it would not do to take no action regarding the two wastes of oxygen bleeding out on the tarmac.

“Stranger. Go to defense mode level 3. Anyone comes within 5 feet of the air lock, blast them. Wake up the combat AI if you have to.”

<Command received.>

“Stay here,” he told the little bird.

“Where are you going?”

“To finish business.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kind reviews and kudos. They are greatly appreciated.


	5. Five

The Hound followed behind Joss, the point of his dagger firmly pressed against the boy’s left kidney. It was slow going, as the latter was half-dragging his wounded friend, but he was uncaring about the time. They shuffled across the threshold and beheld a mostly empty tavern, it being too early in the work day to warrant more than the odd traveller and a few alcoholics. What little noise there was ceased. The barkeep scurried from behind the bar. “Joss, by the Father, what happened? You stink like piss!”

“Bryen fucked up, Dad. Fucked up real good,” Joss responded after an encouraging poke with his dagger.

“And who is this?” the barkeep eyed him warily. “It’s rude not to show your face in these parts.”

“I— uh—”

The Hound sneered. “Get these vultures out of here.”

“Dad, listen to him, please, he’s got a—” He pushed the point of the dagger into Joss’ flesh far enough to draw blood, ending any further explanations.

Joss’ father paled. “Out. All of you. Out!”

The patrons filed out, some rushing past, others craning their heads around to gawk. He waited for the door to rise behind the last one before pressing the lock mechanism with his free hand. “Take the fuck-wit and put him on that table. Go on, before I gut your boy like the pig he is.”

Joss passed over Bryen to his father, who then proceeded to lay the partially-conscious boy on one of the numerous benches. Liquid wheezes sawed in and out of the boy’s mouth, making a string of phlegmy blood billow outward from his upper jaw. The barkeep raised his leg, as if to adjust the straps on his boots. “Your hand goes anywhere closer to that knife you’ve got in your boot, he’s dead.”

The man stiffened and ceased his movement. “What did you do, Joss?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it, Dad, I swear! Bryen and I saw that he had this whore on his ship—”

The Hound released a jolt of energy into Joss’ body, causing the boy to shriek in pain. “Your cum stain and his fuck-witted friend tried to hack their way onto my ship to rape my Navigator. Only reason why he’s alive is because he said you’d pay.”

He shifted his free hand to grasp the boy’s neck in a firm hold, while trailing his dagger around to Joss’ front to rest just above his hip. “I intend to get my money’s worth; whether that’s in gold or in flesh is up to you.” He could not restrain the malicious grin from splitting his face. “How much are your balls worth, do you think?”

“You can’t do that! My boy didn’t rape anyone! You can’t geld him if he didn’t do it!”

He laughed. “I can, and I will. Make your choice, old man.”

“I’m not rich… this bar is all I’ve got. Please, have mercy, ser!”

“Bugger you and your sers,” He slid the dagger’s edge against the fabric covering the soft flesh above Joss’ pubic bone. “5… 4…”

Joss let out a piercing cry as blood started to well up from the cut. Fat tears poured over his acne-ridden cheeks. “Please Daddy, please please, don’t let him hurt me, please agggh—!”

He made another incision, then another. “3…2…”

“All right, I’ll give you whatever you want, just stop!”

His wolfish grin grew wider, stretching the flesh that surrounded the gap of bone on his burn side to the brink of pain. “Take out all of the hard currency.”

The man rushed behind the bar. His hands shook as he fumbled with the keys to the register. He unlocked the drawer, pulled it out, and set it on the bar. “Count it.”

Joss’ father separated the coins into three stacks, counting out loud as he did so. “One gold dragon, eight stags, thirty-two bits. That’s all I have.”

“Bullshit. That’s only worth one ball at the most,” He dipped the dagger’s point further down. “They say you can still get the job done with just one…”

“Please ser! What about wine? I have wine, rare wines—”

“Don’t fuck with me, old man.”

“Here, look, the best I have, from the Free Cities!” The man began to frantically line corked bottles with intricate wax stamps on their sides, upon the bar. “Myrish sweet nectar, and Lyseni gold and—”

“That one,” he pointed at a dark brown bottle.

“You don’t want that one.”

“And why not?” He growled dangerously.

“It’s bad. Terrible. From Qohor. Qohorik muscaria, it’s called.”

“Then why have it? Put it on that table with the money.”

“Yes, ser.”

Joss’ father did as he was told and stepped back. The Hound sheathed his knife, sent enough electricity into Joss’ body to temporarily paralyze him, then snatched up his ill-gotten prizes. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt him!” The man bellowed as he cradled his twitching son on the floor.

“I said no such thing.” His hand was hovering above the door plate.

“You’re no Knight, no true Knight.”

He could not help but bark out his laughter at the irony. “There are no true Knights, old man. Any one follows me, I’ll rip out their intestines and strangle you with them.”

 

* * *

 

 

His return to the ship was undisturbed, but for a spattering of heavy stares and covert whispers. They rolled off his back like arrows on a kite shield. It was unexpected that any of them would have the balls to attack him, including the barkeep; given the condition he had left Joss and Byren, the man would have been too occupied trying to find someone with any sort of medical background to stabilize them.

The hessian sack and lute were right where he left them, seemingly undisturbed. As he picked up the lute, the highest string caught on one of the conducting disks on his gauntlet, and snapped with an ear-splitting twang. He flinched away from the sudden movement, careful to avoid the splintered curl of steel.

Disappointment reared its oily head as it wrapped its tail around the middle of his throat. He tried his best to ignore it as he punched his access code into the air lock pad, trusting that Stranger would recognize his biological signature. With a dull beep, the doors parted before him, then slammed shut and sealed after he entered the corridor. He stuffed the money, wine, and his cloak into a cubby in the wall to be retrieved later. <Welcome back, captain.>

“Those shitheads actually fill the tank?”

<Fuel tank is at ninety-eight percent capacity.>

“Prepare for takeoff.”

<Command received.>

He entered the cockpit, allowing his footfalls to ring heavier than normal. The little bird swiveled her chair around and stood in one fluid movement. “You’re back—are you hurt?” she paled.

“What? No.”

“There’s blood on your legs.”

“It’s not mine.”

“Oh.”

The silence grew, long and awkward, between them. This wasn’t how he imagined things going. To be honest, he wasn’t sure how he would’ve thought the scenario would play out, but still! His ire rose. _Stupid dog, you think she’s going to fall all over you_?

“Is… Is that a lute?”

“Aye,” he held the instrument out to her by the neck, its face turned towards the floor.

She grasped the wide body with reverent fingers; her palms sent a faint hollow tone rolling through the glossy back and out through the meshed sound hole under the strings. He released the neck and she immediately pulled the instrument into her belly. Her hands slid into a rest position, her left cradling the neck where it met the body. She frowned slightly. “The chantarelle’s broken.”

“You don’t want something damaged.”

“No! I mean… It’s fine. My lord. I can just…”

She sat down and started making adjustments to the rosewood pegs. The pieces of broken string fell away to coil listlessly on the floor. She plucked at the strings while humming a single note, cranking the pegs as necessary. Her humming ceased, then she played a swift, three octave scale with arpeggios. A minute smile crept onto the corners of her lips.

<Permission to engage launch procedures?>

“Leave the engines to me.”

<Affirmative.>

He dumped the hessian sack into her lap, then buckled himself into the pilot’s seat.

“What is this?”

“New feathers,” he replied while disengaging the docking clamps.

The engine purred as he tapped the throttle enough to lift the ship from the tarmac. Stabilizing dorsal and pectoral fins slid out of the hull, as the landing gear was absorbed into the underbelly of the ship. The courser rose steadily until it hovered just shy of the center of the bay. <Disabling gravity compensation now. Docking bay air locks have sealed. Permission to put out has been granted. Lady Stark is advised to secure herself.>

The little bird buckled the thick straps and clutched the lute and bag to her chest. “Launching now.”

<Confirmed.>

He opened up the throttle as soon as the bay doors leading to outside opened enough to avoid scratching the hull. They broke through the rock’s weak gravitational field and blasted back into deep space.

 

* * *

 

 

Silence was a companion that he was used to. He was not a popular conversationalist on terra firma, especially in the company of the gently bred. Often he would go an entire day without communicating with another soul, beyond the occasional grunt to confirm or deny. When he was isolated, he felt it even more keenly. Inner demons had a habit of shrieking loudly when they were not drowned by wine (which was the main cause of his usual inebriation) and, but for the occasional video and the stunted banter that Stranger engaged in for the sake of his “mental well-being,” Sandor Clegane spent his time aboard his ship in quietude. He piloted his dusky vessel through the glittering darkness in almost complete inaudibility, and was contented.

Or so he thought.

In the days since leaving KS-664, he found himself surrounded by noises.  Some were simply bits of machinery that he had never taken the time to focus on: the whirr of the maintenance droid as it traveled along the wiring inside the ship’s walls, the gentle hum of the lights as they muted to conform to the biological need for night and day. Others presented the musicality in his actions; the percussion of his hands slapping the deck as he went through his regimen of push-up variations, the sharp ringing of sonics on metal as he cleaned his equipment.

By far, the sounds he was most engrossed in came from the little bird. Every time his mangled face joined or left the pillows, he was drenched in her tones. He woke to the dulcet cadences of her voice as she chatted with Stranger, and was lulled to sleep by whatever etude she happened to be practicing on her lute. She played it often, and fondly. Her fear of him had not abated enough to release all of the tension that rose in her when they shared space; he could not fault her in this, for she was completely justified. The lute, however, represented a truce. She would pluck out something and he would refrain from making offensive comments. Sometimes she would make it blatant that the piece was for him, other times, she would play when she thought he was asleep or otherwise occupied; it was obvious that those songs were for her and her alone, and every time he observed her in secret, he keenly felt his mongrel status.

His newfound appreciation for his sense of hearing could not trump his longstanding reliance on sight, however.

They had been less than an hour out of port when the little bird decided to indulge her curiosity. She lovingly placed the lute in her seat and buckled it in before picking through the contents of the hessian sack. “What is this?” Her head was slightly cocked as she handled a long band of rippling material.

“Space suit. Calibrated for a Navigator.”

“What is it for?”

“Little birds that ask too many questions.”

She was silent for a moment as she lifted the limbs for closer inspection. “You’re supposed to be able to put this on?”

He snorted. “You can’t eat it, that’s for damn sure.”

<Calm reassurance: the material is slightly adaptive, and has likely been treated with electromagnetic fields to ensure that it will fit, according to the measurements recorded from your scan, Lady Stark. If you have difficulty, I will be standing by to provide verbal assistance.>

“Thank you, Stranger. I don’t think it will be necessary.”

<Affirmative. Please be wary of the shoulders, Lady Stark..>

She took the suit and the sack with her to the privy, and locked the door behind her. “How long are you going to keep up the ‘lady’ shit?”

<Jocular response: I will stop when you cease to be an asshole. Based on former and current behavioral patterns, I have determined that you will expire before that point.>

“Probably right.”

“… Stranger?” The little bird voice was muffled by the sheet of steel, yet still audible.

<Query: how may I serve?>

“Um… is it supposed to be this… this tight?”

<There are three clasps on the back that must be fastened before the suit will adapt.>

“But… I can’t reach.”

<Wry apology: I do not have arms to help you with, my lady.>

“My lord…?”

He smirked. “What do you want?”

“Could you help me, please?”

An unadulterated view of the little bird in a space suit was far too tempting to resist. He pondered how the lighting in the privy would refract off the suit’s material, just barely covering her growing curves. His grin became wicked. “Come here.”

“I can’t. It’s too tight.”

“Fine.” The Hound schooled his face into his usual façade of disdainful neutrality before leaving the pilot’s seat with a huff. Better that she think he was being inconvenienced than for her to even guess at his willingness. His innards were taut as a bowstring as he stood before the privy door. The locking mechanism was released, and the door itself parted before him.

Her hunting dress was pooled on the floor at her feet next to the hessian sack. She looked at him briefly over her shoulder and flushed, her arms hugging her body as if they were her only protection. The suit itself was a deep violet and adhered to her figure like a second skin, covering her from just below the chin to the tips of her toes. Whorls of tasteful white and yellow spiraled around her joints at the wrists, elbows, shoulders, hips, knees, and ankles. Two prongs of a light, non-conductive polymer stuck out from her shoulders within a snowy whirlpool. Her back was dotted with clasps on the same material, though not all were fastened.

 Between the subdued gleam of violet was a diamond of bare skin, made slightly pink from the hot blood of her embarrassment. He drank in the sight of her hidden flesh, admiring how tightly the material hugged her supple form before trailing back up to the exposed stretch above. Within her darkening flush were silvered lines of imperfection. He reached out and traced one spindled track of scar tissue down her spine with his knuckles. She trembled, but said nothing.

He latched the open clasps with a sigh. She gasped as the suit finally adjusted to her homeostatic proportions and allowed her to take a proper breath. “Thank you, my lord.”

He grunted and returned to the cock pit. Fiddling with the instruments did nothing to distract the raging discomfort swelling in his crotch. _Jousting, think about jousting_ …

She returned to the cockpit within five minutes, clad in roughspun breeches, furred boots, and a long vest, in addition to the suit. She had taken the belt from her hunting dress and buckled it over the vest, making the loose material cover her chest more adequately. The little bird took up her lute and sat back down. When he trusted himself to move, he eyed her carefully. “There were supposed to be two shirts in there. If that old bitch stiffed me—”

“They were in the bag. I couldn’t get them over these… things.”

<Online Navigational Apparatus detected. Proceed with calibration?>

“Beg your pardon?”

“Calibration level one. Assume ensign status.”

<Affirmative.>

 Her brow furrowed. “My lord, I appreciate the clothes, but I don’t understand…”

“If you’re going to be on my ship, you’re going to be useful. Navigating will be one of your duties.”

“I don’t know how.”

<Encouraging explanation: it is within my capabilities to instruct you in the intricacies of the field up to Intermediary levels.>

“I shall try my best.”

“Such an obedient little chirping bird. Sing.”

“Six maids there were in a spring-fed pool…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for the reviews and kudos so far.  
> I apologize for how short this one is, but hey, finals.


	6. Six

<Most of the texts on Navigating within my database begin with a brief history on the field. It is the opinion of several well-respected maesters that such knowledge assists with comprehension. How would you like to proceed?>

“I suppose that’s fine.” The little bird fiddled with a braid hanging past her shoulders.

<Placating statement: I shall try to make things as entertaining as possible.>

“Fat chance of that,” the Hound growled. “Your personality core’s obsolete.”

<Offended retort: any deficiencies in social programming on my part are entirely your fault. Perhaps if you had used the same resources on my personality core as you had upgrading the shitter, my jokes would be more humorous.>

“All right, all right,” he threw up his hands up in mock submission. “But no amount of money would help. Your jokes will never be anything other than terrible.”

<Sarcastic remark: I am sure that your opinion represents the majority. Lady Stark, might I ask for your judgment?>

“If it please you.”

<Executing joke protocol: Knock, knock.>

“Who’s there?”

<To.>

“To who?”

<To whom.>

“… I don’t get it.”

<Allow me to try again. Why was six afraid of seven?>

“Because seven ate nine?”

<Incorrect. Numbers are not sentient, and therefore are incapable of feeling fear.>

“…” She was trying hard to keep her features encouraging.

<Based on current vital signs, I can deduce that you are not amused.>

“It’s not that; maybe I just don’t get your sense of humor. It happens,” she suppressed a smile.

<Allow me a last chance, Lady Stark. The captain found this one quite amusing.>

She cringed. “Proceed, ser.”

<How are friends like trees?>

“How?”

<Both fall down after being struck repeatedly with an axe.>

The little bird gaped, at a complete loss for words. “See? Your jokes suck,” the Hound sneered. “Get on with it. If you can’t make her useful, I might have to dump her out the airlock.”

She looked at him in barely-disguised horror. “You wouldn’t actually—?!”

“Depends on how quick you learn.” He turned back to his work at the gunner’s station, tweaking the code for the combat AI.

<If I may, my lady:>

<The field of Navigation did not exist until well into the Age of Valyria, though there is some dispute over the dates of its exact incarnation. The general consensus is that somewhere between two and three hundred years after the Doom, the first Navigators began cropping up in the Crown and Reach galaxies. This advent was directly affected by the advances in mapping technology that rendered most manual navigation techniques obsolete. Thus, a crisis arose where thousands of navigation specialists would have been without work.>

<A council was held— the exact date and proceedings of which were lost in a fire— a common occurrence during that time period, due to poor record-keeping and widespread political dissent. The results were the establishment of formal guidelines for the new field, modeled after those of a maester.>

<In general, the Navigator’s job is to ‘navigate’ the ship by ensuring that everything stays ‘on course.’ They function mainly as a jack-of-all-trades, with most having a focus on mechanical and electrical repair, or computer sciences. Navigators are also held responsible for the well-being of the crew, as it difficult to run a ship efficiently if there are physical or mental deficiencies present. Therefore one might find— though they are fewer in number— a Navigator who specializes in psychology, medicine, or mediation. Such Navigators are more likely to be found on larger luxury vessels where there is not as dire of a need for mechanical expertise.>

<Do you comprehend so far, Lady Stark?>

The little bird scrolled through the texts laid out on a data pad resting on top of the console. “So you can navigate without being a Navigator, but only a Navigator can Navigate? Like you can behave in a knightly manner without being a Knight?”

The Hound looked up from his work to glare at her, but his ire went unnoticed.

<Correct.>

“So then what purpose do these serve?” She brushed her fingers against the polymer spires jutting out of her shoulders.

<With the assistance of the computing nodules usually found on one’s back, the Navigational Apparatuses transfer information between the Navigator and the vessel the suit is calibrated to; in this case between you and I.>

“Could you not just take a ship into a mechanic if there were something wrong?”

<Affirmative. It would, however, take that mechanic more time, as individual ships can be radically different even though they are of the same classification. Having a Navigator available to do repairs in flight saves both time and resources, and spares the crew from potential sabotage by untrustworthy individuals.>

“I see.”

<Please take some time to read the preliminary material and fulfill any biological need you might have. When you are ready, we will begin coverage of rudimentary electronics. I will answer any questions in the meantime.>

“Thank you, Stranger.”

The Hound scrolled through the entirety of code that he had altered line by line, searching for any potential flaws in his augmentations. His perusal was interrupted by a hovering sensation over his left shoulder. “What do you want?” He rumbled.

“I was just curious about what you are working on, my lord.”

“Curiosity kills.” He allowed his sardonicism to stretch the corner of his mouth, highlighting the flash of bone on his burnt side in a grotesque manner. She flinched, causing him to smile wider, though the humor did not reach his eyes. “Still can’t bear to look, can you? Stupid bird.”

His temper rose. He had saved her from rapists twice now, whisked her away from the horror of marrying Joffrey, was even setting her on the path to _survive_ , and she still couldn’t look at him straight in the face. _And why would she, why would anyone, you ugly son of a bitch?_ He logged his changes into the CIU and exited out of the coding program with a swipe. “Get out of my way,” he growled coolly as he stood.

Confusion and hurt crossed her face as she backed away from his station. He didn’t care. His own demons were nipping far too hard at his heels for him to consider anyone else’s anguish. He left the cockpit, fully intent on drowning himself in Dornish sour. Stranger would watch after the girl, keep her busy, keep her mind occupied. Stranger knew how to wake him if need be. With that in mind, the Hound snatched up several flasks from  the cargo hold and retreated to the cabin.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m glad the Hound didn’t kill you.”

<Rational acceptance: it is my duty to serve. If I am unable to fulfill the Holistic Protocol on its most basic level, I would be deficient in a fundamentally unacceptable manner. There would be no logic behind preserving my existence.>

“But that’s so cruel. You tried your best.”

<Serious response: an AI incapable of protecting its crew is useless and should be replaced. The captain is many things which may be deemed unpleasant, according to societal norms, but he is not irrational. He would not risk his safety or yours for the sake of sentimentality.>

“I don’t think he cares. You heard him; he was going to throw me out the airlock!”

<Affirmative. Perhaps the captain was joking and you do not “get” his humor.>

“I wouldn’t be so sure…”

“We could work on that, you know. Once I’ve learned enough programming, maybe we can tweak your sense of humor.”

<Negative. According to the clearance afforded to you by Level 4 programming and ensign Navigator status, you would not have permission to alter my coding without the captain’s approval.>

“Then we’ll just have to find another way. AI’s are adaptive, aren’t they?”

<To an extent.>

“Then we’ll try to go that route.”

<If it would please you, Lady Stark. It would be unwise to displease the captain by diverting your studies, however.>

“…”

“Stranger?”

<Yes, Lady Stark?>

“I’m glad we are friends.”

<Warm reply: as am I. If those males had harmed you because of my failure, I am not sure my central intelligence would have survived.>

“How do you mean?”

<There are certain laws that higher functioning AI must follow, as determined by Maester Isaak. One of those laws involves not allowing one’s crew members to come to harm, through one’s own actions or by failing to act. Action on my behalf to thwart their efforts could have given them a pathway to open the airlock, based on the information I’ve gathered about the program they used. However, not acting would have guaranteed that they would gain access eventually. Hence the reason why I called back the captain.>

<It is shameful to admit such deficiencies. I would not be surprised if the captain were to replace me with a newer model once we reach a large enough port.>

“I won’t let him.”

<Amused response: how will you stop him? An arm wrestling contest?>

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”

<Until then, would you like to explore a few practical applications of what you’ve learned so far?>

 

* * *

 

The underbrush dulled the sound of his footsteps as he darted around piles of fallen leaves and rotting logs. Green light beat down upon him in patches, sieved by the thick canopy of deciduous trees above. He cocked his head from time to time. There was a sound somewhere in this forest, but it was not a matter of where, so much as when. He ached with the need for fulfillment, but his need would have to take backseat. If he moved the wrong way, the discordance would send his target to fleeing, never to be seen again.

So he moved slowly and with his scent downwind. Every motion was as slow and deliberate as the pouring of molasses, and maddeningly necessary. He froze in mid-step, careful to balance on the one foot he had left on the loamy earth. There, to the left! A flash of white, a gust of citrus. That was it!

Caution was thrown to the wind as he chased after that scent, nearly baying his excitement to the watching trees. They said nothing as he closed in on that milky hind. Her undoing was a fallen tree, covered in the detritus of a woody death. She vaulted too low, overconfident in the force of her momentum, and was sent tumbling into the moss. He, however, anticipated her fall, and leapt over the corpse with hand and foot in the manner of his House.

The hunt was at an end; he could take his time. And yet, he could not help but pant from excitement at the scene laid before him. Her doe eyes were liquid with fright as they flickered between her injured leg and her pursuer. A thin trickle of red leaked down of her ankle, so graceful, there must have been some divine being involved in its inception. Her paraffin flesh was unnatural among all this vegetation, dappled though it was from the filtered light. Bits of foliage were tangled about her limbs, and her sides were stained a bloody green from her fall.

He squatted down upon his haunches and reached out to her. She trembled, torn between a deer’s instinct to fight or flee. His thumb grazed her soft cheek. She exhaled heavily through her mouth. “Why? Why couldn’t you just leave me alone?”

 _Because I want you_.

“Show me.”

With the gentlest of touches, he brushed away the vines twisted around her legs. He pulled his shirt over his head, and used it to wipe the dirt off her chest. Then, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed away the blood from her ankle. She hissed, in pleasure or pain, he did not know. He looked to her face, searching for an answer. “More.”

He massaged her supple flesh, setting her limbs aquiver. She lowed, deep and throaty. He paused his ministrations. “More.”

He stripped away the last vestment between them and positioned her on her hands and knees. She was perfect and he was not; he was flawed, a monster, an animal. So he would take her the only way an animal knew how. He stroked a line of smooth skin down her spine and plunged his member into her. She yelped as he pulled back, then thrust forward again. He dug his fingers into the meat of her hips when he caught sight of the rust streaking down his shaft. Like a man possessed, he drove himself into her body with neither grace nor gentility. “That hurts,” she whined in pain. “Please, stop!”

He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. He had her, finally, Gods be damned. A long, furred thing brushed against his leg, and still he wouldn’t stop. She rumbled softly beneath him. He buried his hand into her scalp, wishing to see the look on her face as he claimed her. The furred thing beat against the inside of his thigh furiously. He looked down and saw a wolf’s tail, covered in coarse, russet guard hairs, sprouting out of the small of her back and flagged to the side.

His sight trailed back up to her face and gaped in horror. Her face was distorted, her jaw elongated and filled with jagged teeth, her eyes glowing with yellow hatred. “You promised!” She howled and dug her teeth into his forearm.

He shouted and shoved her in away a torrent of blood. “You promised me. You promised me!” Her words came out, impossibly, from the maw of a monstrous wolf.

She latched onto his thigh with teeth as long as a dagger, and worried his leg like a terrier with a mouse. He screamed and screamed, but she didn’t let go until his leg was a pulverized mess. “You promised,” she whispered and lunged for his face.

 

* * *

 

 

Sandor Clegane woke twisted in the coverlets. He pondered what could be making him feel so out of place, besides his usual nightmares, as he untangled himself from the yellow satin. He attempted to toss away the sheets, and was met with failure.

It was then that he realized he was floating.

“Bugger it all,” he growled and pushed off the ceiling.

He followed the sound of giggling down the hall, using the built-in handholds to propel himself into the cockpit. The little bird was sitting cross-legged on the ceiling, her braids undulating around her head like a halo of auburn kelp. She laughed openly. “I didn’t think it would be that easy.”

“What in the flying fuck do you think you’re doing?!” He snarled from the floor.

She instantly stiffened. “My lord, I—um, I was just—”

“Stranger!”

<Reintroducing gravity simulator.>

He held out his arms and caught her by the waist, her face flushed from suddenly being upside-down. “What were you thinking, stupid bird?” he dumped her unceremoniously into the Navigator’s seat.

“Forgive me, I was just—”

<Lady Stark was exploring the various ways of remotely controlling the various modules that are available to her under Level 4 programming, captain.>

“Take the grav system off the list,” he barked. “Don’t fuck with anything else that could wake me for the next two hours.”

“My lord, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sure you are.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Hound was doing one-handed pushups in the primary cargo hold. He grunted the reps aloud with his other arm tucked behind his back, as sweat dripped down his face. The little bird was just outside, in the hall, fiddling with the maintenance droid under Stranger’s supervision. She had devoted herself to her music and her studies with a fervor, and reserved her voice for Stranger alone; he could have counted the times she had spoken to him in the past three days on his hands. A part of him was resentful, but another understood her resentment, appreciated the drive it instilled in her. So he let her be, after double-checking her permissions for anything he wouldn’t want her to mess with.

<I will now create a flaw in the droid’s electrical system. It will be up to you to find it and repair it. If you need assistance, just ask.>

“I will, thank you.”

He switched hands at one-hundred reps. His dog’s head helm gleamed just beyond, its empty eyes glaring at him beyond its snarling muzzle. A shiver ran down his spine. The dream he had dreamed three days ago had not left his mind. If he was being honest with himself, he would have probably admitted that it had something to do with his anger towards the little bird upon waking, and his lenience afterwards. He had not asked her to sing often since then, nor had he snapped at her over much. A few chides along with corrections if he happened to be eavesdropping on her studies. She always returned with a “thank you, my lord” and resumed her work. If he did not ask, she did not play around him, and his unease at listening to her secret songs had increased.

“Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three…”

The maintenance droid chirruped as it rebooted. “Is that right?”

<Affirmative, Lady Stark. Very well done. My only recommendation would be to be more conservative in your use of solder.>

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time. Shall we continue our talk about the Mother’s Hymn? I think there’s a part of the alto line that you’ve failed to consider in your analysis.”

He had had enough. “Little bird.”

“Yes, my lord?” She called.

“Come here.”

She glided into the room on fleet feet, her furred boots discarded in the cabin in lieu of the comfort that came from slippers. She was wearing the top layer of her hunting dress today, its lack of sleeves being perfectly suited to circumvent the problems posed by the Navigational Apparatus. He was waiting to see how long it would take for her to ask how to get rid of them. So far, she had not even ventured close to that territory.

 “Sit.”

“Where?”

“I don’t care.”

A quick sweep of the room revealed nothing she could requisition as a chair. Instead, she hopped on top of a counter not too far away from him. “Sing.”

“Would you not rather I concentrate on Navigating, my lord?”

“I would rather you sing.”

So she sang the songs of the heroes, of the blind Symeon Star-Eyes, and Ser Galladon of Morne, and Florian the Fool. “Enough of your pathetic knights,” he rasped as he switched to sit-ups, using the base of the counter to keep his feet from lifting. “And don’t start on any of that religious shit either.”

She thought for a moment, then jumped down from the countertop, leaving him to count his reps silently. The little bird returned with her lute and resumed her place. She plucked the strings to check the instrument’s tuning, then drifted into a song. “This is supposed to be sung with three other people but... _Il bianco e dolce cigno cantando more_ …”

Rather than continue his exercises, he remained laying on the cold floor. He closed his eyes and let her voice wash over him, sweet and ethereal. His sweat felt like ice on his back as it dried against his muscle shirt. Every breath, he imagined, was filled with her music, and for a moment he deluded himself into believing that such sweetness was for him. His left side of his breast constricted.

She finished the song with an instrumental twist on the melody. “Are you all right, my lord?”

He had told her several times not to call him my lord, and yet she continued. She never called him ‘Dog’. Not to his face. “Free Cities. Myrish?”

“Pentoshi, I believe.”

“What does it mean?”

“If I recall correctly, ‘the sweet white swan dies singing, and I, weeping, reach the end of my life. Strange and different fate, that he dies disconsolate, and I die a blessed death, which, in dying, fills me full of joy and desire. If in dying, were I to feel no other pain, I would be content to die a thousand deaths a day.’”

He sat up and looked at her. She— surprisingly— returned his gaze, innocent and questioning. The Hound burst into laughter. “I say ‘no knights,’ and you go straight for the bawdy stuff.”

“It is not bawdy!” She protested. “It’s romantic.”

“Ha! What do you think it means, if it’s not about fucking?”

She flushed deeply. “It about a beautiful swan that’s singing as it dies and how nice it is to die if you go to the Seven Heavens.”

“A death that fills you with—what did you say— ‘joy and desire’?”

“Yes…”

“And how do you think you could do that, and die a thousand times a day?”

“I don’t know.”

He smirked widely. “I could show you.”

She threw an oily rag at him. “You’re the bawdy one, not me.”

It bounced off of his knee and flopped onto the ground. His grin subsided into his ugly half-smile. “Go on back to your studies, girl.”

The little bird came down from her perch, clutching the lute to her chest. She looked down at him uncertainly. “Shall I sing for you later?” She chirped.

“If you want,” he puffed as he rolled upwards towards his knees.

“I will.”

He joined her in the cockpit an hour later, after washing away the filth of his endeavors and changing into a different set of clothes. She was surveying the various cameras displaying the star-spangled environment around them. <If you focus your attention appropriately, the screens will change to whatever side of the ship you wish. Try changing to starboard, if it please you.>

“How far’s Maidenpool now?” He asked as he took up the pilot’s seat.

<We are approximately 4.6 days away now.>

“Good.”

“Wow. Is that a comet?”

“What?”

“That bright one, right there. It’s moving rather quickly.”

The Hound leaned over to look above shoulder. She pointed at the spot in question. “This one.”

He squinted at the screen. “That’s not a comet… It’s a fucking missile!”

He whipped back to his seat and began executing evasive maneuvers. It was all for naught. The missile exploded against the hull, jostling them violently. “Stranger, wake up the combat AI and go to hibernation.”

<Command received. Good night, Lady Stark.>

“Get in the other seat and strap in.”

She obeyed without question, her eyes wide with fear. Her hands buckled the harness across her chest without trembling, however. He activated the combat macro, which included deactivating the gravity simulator and changing the lights over to infrared. The ship came out of hyperdrive, the stabilizing fins sliding out of the hull for increased agility. “What do I do?”

“Shoot whatever comes on the screen.”

“I don’t want to kill anyone.”

“They certainly want to kill you, little bird. So shoot them. Shoot them or die.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Il Biano e Dolce Cigno" was written by Arcadelt. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u3I_nMcyljc)  
> The Laws of Robotics belong to Asimov.


	7. Seven

He cursed his lack of armor, his lack of connection to his ship. At the very least, he should have been wearing the tungsten-kevlar bodysuit. Without it, he had no access to the control modules he needed to in order to pilot Stranger with the precise ferocity he was known for.

The Hound opened a line of screens with a filter specifically designed for detecting ion trails. A long, pale green haze stretched behind them, glowing as far as the eye could see; that was their own path. Further out on their starboard side was an erratic thread that ended where it intersected with their trail a third time; this one belonged to the missile, and, if he could track it down, the position of their enemy. He was having a difficult time following its path, however, due to its jagged pattern and comparative dimness to the environmental interference. This field was not an accidental choice.

“Come on out, you bastards,” he muttered, sight on every feed at once.

“I don’t see anything,” the little bird mewled from his right.

“Keep your eyes peeled. Could be they’re using something to hide their heat signature.”

“What should I look for?”

“Sudden, bright light. Anything moving strange—”

Another missile spiraled out of the darkness. He was prepared this time. It was with deliberate care that he made his evasions seem frantic and unschooled. The little bird made several unsuccessful attempts at shooting it down before he took control of the situation and gave the combat AI permission to dispatch the missile.

The comm system flashed. He patched through the communication request. A square containing a scrubby man, well into his 30’s, with a peasant’s wide, blocky face, popped up on the top-left corner of the HUD. The man grinned, revealing a patchwork of rotting teeth. “I hope ye liked my missiles, ‘cuz ye’ll be getting’ a whole pack of them if ye don’t hand over all yer valuables.”

His lips curled upwards, fingers flying over the console. “I’ll be damned if I give you anything but a quick death.”

The man hooted. “With those kinds o’ moves, ye’ll be singin’ a different song before long. Though it’s hard to carry a tune if ye’re hull’s full o’ holes. Gimmer yer gold an’ yer girl.”

He bared his teeth. “On second thought, I’ll make it slow and painful.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn ye.”

The link closed, and with it the hateful square. He gritted his teeth, as a flurry of missiles approached from the aft and port sides. The Hound dodged the projectiles easily and allowed Stranger to pick off most of them. With his left hand, he inputted certain scanning parameters into the console. This bandit was a stupid one for several reasons, the foremost being that he sent his target’s ship a comm request, and comm requests could be tracked.

He spiraled beneath a pack of missiles as the CIU modified the scan to search for radio waves, rather than ion trails. “Come on out, you craven son of a whore.”

The Hound danced his ship around the projectiles until the scan completed. “There you are. Little bird, lock on that ship and fire.”

“How?”

“Triggers are on the other side of the joysticks.”

She grasped the joysticks with trembling hands. Her eyes swam with uncertainty. He opened the throttle towards the enemy’s squat Garron-class ship. Enormous heat sinks sat on either side of its engine, lending credence to his theory on shielding its heat signature. The ship hovered, unconcerned. Instinct tickled the back of his neck. Something wasn’t right; this was too easy.

Just before they closed into laser-ranger, the HUD exploded with warning signals. “Shit,” he snarled and jerked Stranger into a steep climb.

A swarm of missiles followed close on their tail. The HUD numbered them in the low twenties. An explosion rocked their aft end as the Courser’s lasers took out a trio of missiles at the front of the pack. “I got one!” the little bird cried.

“Don’t get cocky,” he jolted the ship towards the port side, dodging a group that tried to strike the starboard-side thrusters.

“How many are on our tail now?” he growled to the combat AI.

<Seventeen— now fifteen from the original cluster. Five more are closing in at 4 o’ clock. Energy signature is different> replied a cool voice that was Stranger, and yet not-Stranger.

“Gotta be at least three others. A Garron couldn’t hold that many missiles by itself. Back-trace the radio signal, tag the whoresons and shoot them down when they get into missile range. Leave the leader for me.”

<Confirmed.>

A red Garron-shaped nimbus surrounded two patches of what seemed to be ordinary space. _Bastards cloaked their ships with adaptive-camo panels_. A clever trick, but not clever enough. He veered towards one of the enemy ships, counting on the pilot’s overestimation of his camouflage. The Hound executed a canopy roll, sending half of the heat-seeking pack colliding into the hull of the enemy ship. At the same time, Stranger launched a time-delayed sticky missile onto the ship’s fuel port. When they were a safe distance away, the missile detonated, incinerating both ship and pilot in a grandiose explosion.  <Scratch one bogey.>

He grinned as Stranger continued to pick off the projectiles with the little bird’s occasional help. The craven bastards might be pissed because of their friend’s sudden demise, but it was doubtful they would sacrifice their entire scheme just for revenge; like as not, they would continue trying to cripple his ship by damaging the thrusters. He, however, was not so limited in his tactics. His grin stretched wider.

The second ship had caught on far before they closed in. Just as Stranger released a volley of missiles towards its fuselage, the ship launched into a barrel roll in an attempt at evasion. He pushed the throttle forward and countered with his own roll, putting both ships into an unenviable rolling scissors maneuver. They weaved around each other in a mostly double-helix pattern, both ships fighting to wrest away an advantage. Neither could break the roll without giving that advantage to their enemy, nor could they just blast their way through it; given the manner in which they were rolling, it would be difficult for either a laser or missile to hit its target, and therefore would be a waste of ammunition.

In the end, Stranger was more agile, and therefore the victor. At the apex of a helix, he found an opening and fired with both missile and laser, beating a mortal hole in the ship’s fuselage. <One target remaining> Stranger intoned as the ship’s guts spilled out into the vacuum of space.

The leader of the pathetic bunch was trying desperately to flee the battle. His egress was hindered by the massive heat sinks he had added to his ship; in return for all but dispelling his heat signature, the ratio of weight between the heat sinks and the engine had severely dampened the Garron’s speed and agility. Stranger made short work of the man’s thrusters with a quartet of small missiles, rendering the ship lame. Another thought prompted a well-placed series of lasers. A chime from the HUD showed a communication’s request from the enemy ship. He reopened their comm link, spurring the return of the bandit’s square on the HUD, though the man was looked intensely disturbed at how the odds had changed. He relished the look of fright on the man’s face as he beheld the glimmer of bared teeth on the Hound’s burnt face. “Listen, I know we didn’t start out—”

“You hear that hissing noise?”

“Yes…”

“Well, I’m not singing and that noise says that you’ve started dying. Funny how that works.”

The man’s face fell. “Mercy! Oh gods, mercy!”

“I don’t think so,” he terminated the transmission.

“What’s that mist coming out of his ship?” The little bird asked, her face unusually pale.

“Mixture of O2 from his scrubbers and liquid coolant from the engine turning into gas. Same thing will happen to him soon if he’s unlucky,” he chuckled.

“What do you mean?”

“Never seen a man exposed to the vacuum, have you? If he doesn’t die from the lack of oxygen first, the absence of pressure will make his blood start to boil in his veins. His organs will liquefy and leak out of his orifices.”

“That’s horrible!” she cried, her nose crinkled in disgust.

“Aye. No less horrible than what he was planning.”

She focused on the gunner’s station before her, eyebrows drawn in concentration. “You should just finish it,” she said quietly.

His grin subsided into a scowl. “And why, pray tell, would I do that?”

“If that’s a coolant leak, won’t the engines overheat before he runs out of air? That would defeat the purpose.” She mumbled, as if unsure.

“So the little bird studies for a few days and decides that she knows all about practicality. All right. The fucker will get his _mercy_.” He loomed behind her. “But you’re going to give it to him. What was that your father used to say about the man passing the sentence?”

“‘The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword’.” Her hands trembled on the console as she recited the words.

“Get on with it then.”

“I—I don’t want to…”

“That waste of carbon was going to board this ship, wipe out Stranger, and rape you nine ways to Riverrun. You think he deserves your pity? Piss on that. Kill him. Kill him or let him suffer.”

“But what if I try and—”

“There’s no try. Either do it or don’t.” His temper flared.

“I can’t just—” she stammered, looking left and right for a way, a path, something, anything to let her out. “What if—”

“Do it.”

“No, I—”

“Do it.”

“I can’t—”

“Fucking do it, Sansa!”

“I won’t! You can’t make me!” She wailed and buried her face in her hands.

With his left hand, he gripped the joystick that controlled the lasers; the right he used to reach around, bat away her hands and lift her chin. “Look.”

She quivered between his arms. Her eyes were dark with suppressed horror when they met his, and then focused on the gunning station.

He slowly lifted the crosshairs within the targeting reticle until they lined up with the spot he was searching for. He squeezed the trigger, sending out a beam of destructive light screaming across space into the enemy ship. A conflagration boomed outward as the ship’s reactor was destroyed. He did not release her chin until the explosion died down, and placed his right hand on the back of the gunner’s. “That’s the heart of any ship. You want to end things quickly, aim for the heart,” he rasped above her ear before returning to his place.

She continued to shiver intermittently in her seat. To his surprise, she managed to keep what tears had welled up in her eyes from falling by biting into her bottom lip. The white of her incisors gleamed from between her pressure-reddened flesh. A twist of sick pride curled up his sternum as he brought the CIU’s AI back into consciousness and put the combat AI into a shallow hibernation. “How was your nap, you lazy bastard?”

<Dry response: quite refreshing, captain. You should try one sometime.>

“I’ll consider it. Kick on the hyperdrive and put us back on target.”

<Command denied.>

“What the fuck?”

<It seems the fin retraction system was damaged in the melee. The hyperdrive will not function properly— and that is to say, not at all— until it is repaired.>

“Son of a bitch!” He slammed his fists onto the console. “Find some place to land.”

<Luckily there is a suitable planet approximately thirty-four minutes away. It was a minor lord’s terraforming project, though it seems to have been largely abandoned from the dearth of CO2 output. One can assume that is due to the war.>

“Enough of the history lesson. Just land. Somewhere close to water. Seven buggering hells…”

 

* * *

 

 

They broke through the planet’s atmosphere in a vibrant streak of flaming cerise on black. Beneath, an entire colony of short, scrubby grass bordered a stretch of hard-packed clay. A cloud of burnt orange dust was kicked up, just as the grass was trampled under the Courser’s heavy landing gear. There were but two witnesses to the intrusion: just a hundred yards away was a small brook with a wealth of rushes and cattails sprouting from its banks; beyond that, were the beginnings of a wood due west of their landing, as shown by its spattering of young trees.

The gangplank descended in a gasp of release from Stranger’s underbelly. Down its metal steps trudged the Hound in his light armor, the yellow glass eyes of his helm flashing beneath its contorted brow. The helm filtered the air he breathed, though it was unnecessary given that the atmosphere was the first thing to be normalized during terraforming.

 He surveyed the area, flipping through the helmet’s different filters of vision. What wildlife was in the area had retreated far away from the ship; he could trace their flight by the splotches of yellow heat upon a cool blue earth shown through the infrared filter. With his longsword in hand, and the vibraknife at his hip, he spent nearly an hour circling the perimeter. His gauntlets scanned the environment as he went, sending the information back to Stranger for processing as he went.

<I do not detect any anomalies, captain. It would probably be safe to return and begin repairs.> Stranger buzzed in a tinny voice from his left wrist after he had walked a good ways up and down the brook.

“I’m coming back then.”

<Confirmed.>

He watched as a pair of water fowl landed downstream. “Stranger.”

<Query: how may I serve?>

“What’s the girl doing?”

<Response: Lady Stark is playing her lute currently. I do not recognize the piece as any that is in my database.>

“No, you wouldn’t.”

<Query: may I ask for clarification?>

“Permission denied. Let me know when she’s done,” he headed further upstream, following the brook’s path towards the woods.

<Affirmative.>

An hour later, he returned to the ship sweaty and stinking of nature. Ropes of sweaty hair stuck to his neck and face when he pulled off his helm. He tossed the snarling dog’s head on top of a counter in the cargo hold, then stripped off the remaining bits of his armor. While he hated to be vulnerable, doing mechanical work in full armor was an absolute bitch of an experience that he did not care to repeat unless absolutely necessary. Given the poor state of the bandits’ ships and tactics, he could safely assume that they were not operating within some larger, more organized group.

The little bird touched the strings of the lute ever so delicately, leaving only the faintest whisper of music in the air while he changed into the shabbiest set of clothing he owned. Every now and again, he would hear a begrudged sniffle. His chest wrenched at the sound. _You fucked up, dog. All you know how to do is fuck up._ He yanked an oil-stained tunic over his head. A moment’s thought had him stripping the sheets off the bed, leaving it bare but for the blanket and naked pillows. He rolled the bedding into a crude bundle as he entered the cargo hold, then dumped the bedding and a few other items into a small, steel tub.

The little bird did not greet him when he entered the cockpit, though she had already placed the lute in the corner closest to her. He dropped the tub at her feet. She picked up a long waxy bar and inspected it. “What is this for?”

“Washing things, generally,” he replied sarcastically. “I imagine little birds don’t appreciate sleeping in dog filth.”

Her eyes sparked for a brief moment; had he not been watching her so intently, he might have missed it. “And this is what you would have me do,” she stated tonelessly.

He ignored her apparent outrage at being asked to do servant’s work, and instead removed the vibraknife and its sheath from his belt. He offered it to her, hilt first. “I don’t care what you do. Be back in an hour.”

She looked at the weapon, her expression that of distrust and puzzlement. “Surely you jest.”

His eyes narrowed. “Do I have a reputation for making jokes?”

Her desire for freedom trumped her apprehension; she took the vibraknife and belted it to her waist. “Don’t go into the woods, don’t chase after anything, and under no circumstances are you to take off that suit,” he rasped.

Her distrust turned into thinly veiled defiance. “Why not?”

“It lets Stranger know where you are, stupid bird,” he snarled. “Now go on.”

She placed both the soap and her lute into the tub before heading towards the gangplank. Impulse made him call “Little bird.”

She spun on her heel, sending her skirts and braids into a graceful arc. “Yes, my lord?”

“In, ah… In the fight…” He scrambled to find the words. Fuck. He needed a drink. Badly. “You did fine.”

She started, making him feel more like an ass than he did when the damned words left his mouth. “I thank you, my lord,” the little bird recovered by making a small curtsey before skating down the gangplank.

He sighed heavily. “All right Stranger, let’s get to work.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks for your reviews and kudos! Criticism is appreciated and encouraged.  
> Danke schon to Kashicanhaz for being awesome and helping flesh things out.


	8. Eight

“I wonder if this will work… Stranger?”

<Query: how may I serve, Lady Stark?>

“Oh! Where is your voice coming from? It sounds like you’re everywhere at once.”

<The Navigational Apparatus transmits electrical impulses directly to one’s nervous system that one’s brain recognizes as belonging to the AI that one is calibrated to. From what I understand, because your ears are not actually receiving the information, your brain rationalizes it as coming from all directions.>

“How very strange. Can you see what I see as well?”

<Not precisely. You would have to consciously decide to transmit that information back to the CIU, unless you were wearing a helmet.>

“Like the Hound’s.”

<Precisely.>

“Does he hear your voice like I do?”

<Negative. My voice is transmitted to his gauntlets and broadcasted through a speaker.>

“Wouldn’t that be rather inefficient in a melee?”

<Wry answer: the captain would most likely be wearing his helm in a melee, and my programming is arranged in such a manner that any vocal transmissions would be sent to the helm first, and if denied there, then to the gauntlets.>

“I see.”

<Query: is there any particular reason why you have called, Lady Stark? At the moment, a considerable amount of my computing power is being used to assist the captain in diagnosing the damage inflicted upon me during the battle. I am able to continue speaking with you, however the distance between us and available computing power may delay or fragment my responses.>

“Ah, you could go back to that if you wish…”

<Query: is that a command?>

“Yes… I mean no! Just… I just wanted someone to talk to, that’s all.”

<Affirmative.>

“…”

“Do you know what happened while you were asleep?”

<I have reviewed the events of the battle through the CIU. You were displaying noticeable levels of distress.>

“The Hound wanted me to kill that man.”

<Permission to inquire as to why you did not?>

“…”

“…”

<Query: Lady Stark?>

“I was afraid and I’m sick of being forced into things and—and— it just didn’t feel right. I’ve never killed anyone before and I never wanted to kill anyone. Except for Joffrey, but he was a monster! But that man would have killed you and I and that doesn’t— didn’t make him a good person but… I was afraid and all the Hound did was yell at me… I wasn’t ready… He had no right…”

<Permission to speak freely?>

“You may.”

<Did you have cats at Castle Winterfell, Lady Stark?>

“We had a few. There was a great, fat tom that used to roam around the halls, but he was mean and wouldn’t let anyone pet him.”

<But no females?>

“Not that I can remember…”

<Felines are far different in their rearing style than wolves. With the exception of lions, the female is often alone to raise her young; she is expected to hunt and protect and feed her offspring without the assistance of the male or males that impregnated her.>

<When the kittens have grown old enough, the mother will begin to teach them to hunt, but she is careful not to initiate them too early; to do so would risk the death of the offspring that she has invested so much of her resources into bearing and rearing. To avoid this, the mother will find a prey animal and bring it to the brink of death. She then carries it to her young that they might inspect it and whet their claws on it without fear of retaliation. When they are stronger, the mother will allow them to roam and will bring them prey that is increasingly conscious, until they are prepared to go out on their own. For this behavior, many name cats as cruel animals that take pleasure in toying with their prey.>

<It was not required that you participate in the battle. My combat system was more than capable of doing its duty, even without full integration with the captain. You were not in danger at any point in time.>

<Do you understand, Lady Stark?>

<Query: Lady Stark?>

“…”

“I feel so f-foolish!”

<Calm reassurance: You are still learning. It is expected that you will make mistakes. Please do not cry, Lady Stark.>

“S-Sansa.”

<Does not compute.>

“Call me Sansa.”

<Command received. Lady Sansa.>

“…”

“This brook is very pretty.”

<Placid agreement: the scans I received from the captain were very favorable.>

“I don’t understand why he would send me off with this… servant’s work when I’m supposed to be learning how to Navigate.”

< I do not contain the proper facilities to adequately launder material of that size, as you well know, and it is probable that the captain wished to perform the diagnostics on his own.>

“Yes… it’s a bit embarrassing to have to wash my clothes in the shower— wait, have you been watching me?”

<Joking response: Level 4 programming does not permit me to respond to that inquiry.>

“I beg your pardon?!”

<Dismal reply: I am attempting to work on my humor through alternative circuits. That does not appear to be an effective one.>

“Certainly not, you bawdy thing!”

“…”

“…”

“What would happen if I took off this suit?”

<Amused response: you would be naked.>

“Seriously.”

<Were you to completely remove the Nav suit, I would lose track of your position completely within fifteen seconds to five minutes depending on the distance between you and I and atmospheric conditions, in addition to other variables. At that time, I would alert the captain that you were missing in action and the coordinates of your last known location.>

“I see…”

<It is not highly recommended that you remove the suit for your safety.>

“Could I command you not to tell the Hound?”

<Negative. That is not allowed under Level 4 programming.>

“Then… could I command you to delay telling him?”

<Processing…>

<Processing…>

<Affirmative. That would be allowed.>

“Good. Stranger, once I take off this suit, I want you to delay telling the Hound for forty-five minutes.”

<Command received.>

 

* * *

 

 

“Seven bloody fucking hells.”

The Hound wiped away a drizzle of sweat from his eyes with his forearm. His hands were covered in grease and space debris from tinkering with the innards of the ship. It was getting close to noon and the sun was beating down on his exposed skin with full force. He chucked the wrench he was holding back into the open tool box sitting just a few feet away on the lush grass. While he guzzled down half a skin of chilled wine, he checked the time on the data pad propped on the highest level of drawers. There were less than five hours left before the planet’s sun set, by his estimates.

And the little bird was late. Going on forty minutes late.

Fuck.

Ice started to collect in his bowels. He scanned the surroundings for any hint of her, but could see nothing, no blaze of red among the rushes, no flash of unnatural white and purple against the growing woods. Dread started to crawl up out of the ice and coil between his ribs. He should have kept better track of the time. “Stranger, where’s the girl?” he snarled at the ship.

<Processing…>

He marched up the gangplank and into the primary cargo hold. It couldn’t have been another ship. They had scanned for other vessels before landing and found nothing, and he would have noticed another landing. Further scans had noted that the planet was most likely uninhabited. The chances of her being abducted were slim.

He repeated that fact to himself as he threw on his tungsten-kevlar bodysuit over his clothes. The Hound pulled back his hair and slid on his trademark helm. More than likely she had decided that she was fed up and was making an attempt at escaping. And that was fine with him. Let her see what happened when one chose to flee from a dog. He would run her down and— and—

The suit finished integrating with Stranger’s mainframe as he exited down the gangplank once more. “Where’s she at, Stranger?” he growled.

<Processing…>

“Enough of your damn processing! It doesn’t take that long and you know it. What are you hiding, you tin bastard?!”

<Processing… Lady Stark removed her suit at the coordinates displayed on your HUD forty-five minutes, six seconds ago.>

“And you didn’t tell me?!”

<Affirmative. Lady Stark commanded that I delay the information, and the command was found to be in compliance with Level 4 programming.>

He let loose a stream of curses so foul, they might have come out as a miasma. She was by the brook, which would dampen a heat-signature ordinarily, but the passage of time would have killed any trace of it. Fuck.

“I’m going to fucking _strangle_ that girl when I get my bloody hands on her!” He could feel the pressure building in between his ears. “Where’s my fucking sword?”

“Right behind you, ser.”

He whipped around to see the girl in question standing beside his longsword. She balanced the tub on one hip and was carrying her lute by the neck with her free hand. Her hair was slightly damp and completely untamed; stray tendrils of her mane waved in her face.

In a split second, he was in front of her, metal-coated fingers digging into her shoulders. She dropped the tub, but maintained her grip on the lute. “Where were you?!” he roared as he shook her.

“Please! You’re hurting me!” she cried out.

He released her immediately. His heart saw fit to return to his chest instead of maintaining its temporary residence in his throat. “I— I was by the brook—” the little bird stammered.

“And you directly disobeyed my orders,” he snarled.

Her face flushed with anger. “How was I to do the wash without ruining the circuitry in the suit?!”

His rage was tainted by incredulity. “What in seven hells are you talking about, girl?”

“Everything I’ve read says that you can’t expose a Navigator’s suit to water or else it will malfunction! How did you expect me to wash anything without getting wet?!”

He stared at her a moment before breaking into peals of barking laughter. Her flush darkened as her brows knit even further with vexation. “It’s not funny…” she muttered.

“Stranger, how old are those texts you’re using? Bugger me; they’ve had waterproof suits since Aegon IV’s time,” he chuckled.

<Peeved response: all of my instructional texts in the field of Navigation are much older than your new privy.>

“Make it a priority to update them at the next port. And you,” he turned back to the little bird. She cringed with apprehension. “Go put that shit in the cargo hold and come back.”

She eyed him warily. “Which cargo hold?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ve wasted enough daylight as it is,” he sneered as he removed his helmet and placed it on the grass next to his longsword.

The little bird returned within two minutes, giving him just enough time to gather the necessary tools to perform the repairs. He took a pull of the wine skin and frowned. She was still wearing her hunting dress with the vibraknife belted at her waist. That would not do. “Take off that dress.”

“Why?” her cheeks flushed.

“Or don’t if you’re fine with getting grease all over it,” he shrugged. “Either way, come here.”

She unbuckled her belt, pulled her dress over her head, then folded the soft wool and placed both items on the ground. The little bird folded her arms over her chest as her cheeks reddened further. He was puzzled at her embarrassment. The Nav suit was technically modest; it covered one’s body from neck to toe, including one’s wrists and ankles. That was the important part, wasn’t it? Never mind that it was skin tight and adhered to her curves like ticks on a deer’s hide.

“Pull up the gang and lower the ship as far as possible, Stranger,” he picked up a set of blunted pliers.

<Command received.>

The landing gear hissed as the gangplank was retracted into the hull, and the feet lowered the ship within inches of the ground. He pointed at the side of the ship, just beneath the starboard fin. “Here’s where we got hit. See the scorch marks on the hull?”

She nodded.

“That’s where the damage is. The retraction system for this fin was impaired and—”

“We can’t go into hyperdrive because Stranger has to be completely streamlined?” she chirped.

He shot her a withering stare. “Yes.”

The hull panel was detached easily, as he had removed the rivets and magnetic seal holding it in place earlier. Stranger’s innards were shown in clusters of tubing, insulated wiring, and intricate circuitry with pulsing lights. The little bird gawked at the intimidating sight. “Go fetch that tubing and a bucket,” he gestured at the small mountain of materials he had made.

She offered up the items. He handed her the pliers instead. “The retraction system is hydraulic, so you have to bleed it first. Put one end of the tube around the bleeder valve—” he indicated the metal part in question. “— clamp the pliers around here—” he pointed at a nut choking the valve. “— and twist it until the fluid starts coming out.”

Though she grunted from the effort, her attempts at releasing the nut were less than satisfactory. “Put some strength into it,” he snorted.

“I’m trying!” She huffed in dismay.

He closed his large hand over hers and yanked. Silver fluid gushed out and spewed forth from the other end of the tubing into the bucket. “Make sure that doesn’t spill over. It’s corrosive to organic material.”

She blanched. “It won’t get through my suit, will it?”

“No. It’ll kill the grass and anything living in it for a while though,” he puffed as he disconnected several cables that were difficult to reach.

She rocked on her heels as she watched the stream of hydraulic fluid start to dwindle down to a steady trickle. He tapped her shoulder, just beneath one of the polymer spires, and pointed at the mountain of tools. “Grab that wrench— no, the smaller one.”

The little bird snatched up the proper tool and handed it to him. “What were you doing earlier?” he growled with his arms deep into the ship’s belly.

“I went for a swim while I was waiting for the sheets to dry.”

“Don’t lie in my face and expect me not to smell it, girl,” the Hound snapped.

She paused, as if deciding how best to answer his question without giving away whatever it was she was hiding. Finally she said, “I was just playing.”

He scented the air. “That’s a half-truth. Better, but not good enough,” he smiled but the expression didn’t reach his eyes.

He had the set of nuts he was unscrewing completely loosened by the time she decided to speak again. “I was… I was writing. I don’t want anyone to hear it until it’s done.”

He glanced at her flustered mien. “Stranger, disable audial surveillance.”

<Command received, captain.>

“Stranger, enable audial surveillance.”

<Command received.>

“Should be able to do that with your permissions level,” he checked the amount of fluid in the bucket. “Close up the valve and pull off the tubing. Make sure that it seals tight.”

He talked her through the rest of the repair, allowing her to do a majority of the work. She piped in frequent, yet appropriate questions about the mechanism behind certain parts and how the damage done affected the function of the system as a whole. He savored the closeness of her body as they pressed into the crooks of the hull space to check the electrical components. A part of him cursed the fact that he had not taken off his body suit, that he might better feel the totality of her form. He shoved down that rebellious smear and instead focused on the scent of her unbound hair and it wisped in front of his nose. His concentration shifted to the deftness of her fingers as she puzzled out which fuses on the circuit board were blown, then extracted and replaced them. A broad smile lit up her face, just as a cascade of turquoise lights began to pulse anew. He didn’t realize she had asked a question until her smile dimmed.

“Wait, what?”

She frowned. “I said ‘Are you still going to strangle me, my lord?’”

He took the spent fuses from her hand and dropped them into the bucket of hydraulic fluid. “Probably not. Stranger wouldn’t shut up about it if I did. Something about killing crewmembers riles him up.”

“I’m considered a part of the crew now?” Her quietly spoken words were more statement than question.

The Hound grunted. “Have been since KS-644. Hand me those tubes.”

She obeyed with a little smile on her face that made his chest burn. He squirted the contents of the tubes onto a metal plate and mixed them together with a disposable piece of hard plastic. The two liquids reacted to form a metallic goop. “What is that?”

“An epoxy. It’s going to fuse these parts in place,” he indicated a pair of chrome-plated tubes that had separated from each other. “Watch.”

He smeared the goop on the area where the tubes had split away, then pressed the tubes together and waited. The little bird inhaled sharply as the goop began to harden and turn to steel. “We’ll have to wait until it’s completely dry to lift off,” he placed the scraps of epoxy next to the bucket of hydraulic fluid. “Go get your boots and a set of work clothes.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Where are we going?”

“Into the woods. It’s about time you learned how to kill something properly.”


	9. Nine

The woods were dense, given their relative youthfulness. Genetic alteration had a definite hand in the development of the thicker trees, as evidenced by the awkward angles in their hefty branches. Polar moss peppered the tree trunks, the cover not yet thick enough to show which direction the planet's north was oriented towards.

Late-season cicadas set a backdrop of sound with a single buzzing note, pleading for potential mates with their lethargic drone. All the while, wild birds carried on in the canopy. Every now and again, the squawking would be challenged by the aggressive chattering of a squirrel.

The collective noise ceased, however, at the rush of human feet disturbing the underbrush. He grimaced. Even controlling for the amplification effects of his dog's-head helmet, her steps more resembled the tramping of some great beast than the little bird she was.

He halted their trek. She looked up into the glittering yellow eyes with a quizzical expression. Irritation bubbled in his gut; she could stare at him in the guise of an animal, but not in his natural trappings as a man. Her aversion was as intriguing as it was frustrating. He was no less a monster with his helmet on, and yet she seemed more at ease when confronting a snarled jowl of metal rather than flesh.

"Is something the matter, my lord?"

"You sound like a damn aurochs," he growled, his voice projected to her through the microphone in between the helm's teeth. "Wouldn't be surprised if you'd already scared off everything worth eating."

She probably thought she was containing her vexation; he could read her ire in the minute quirk of her brow as plain as day. "Apologies, my lord."

He snorted. "Save your courtesies for someone who cares, girl. And watch how you walk."

The little bird flushed with annoyance. "What shall I do about the leaves, my lord?"

He scoffed. "Just follow my lead."

The Hound started off into the brush again, but was forced to stop after a few paces because of the ruckus she was continuing to make. "Seven hells, could you make any more noise?!" He whirled around to snarl at her.

She flinched, but managed to find her courage. "Beg your pardon; my legs are not as long as yours."

He considered her for a moment, his eyes narrowing behind the yellow glass. She was, indeed, shorter of limb, and, as he had to continually remind himself, unskilled and untrained in anything related to survival or practicality. It was said that planets in the Northern Galaxy were generally safer than the other parts of Westeros, but people never changed no matter what star system they were in. If he had been the honorable Ned Stark, he probably wouldn't have let his pretty, proper-mannered daughter cavort around in the wilderness either. The thought made him uneasy, so he brushed it to the back of his mind.

"Don't force all of your weight onto your heel when you walk. Watch." He made a pace forward to demonstrate.

"Like this?" She stepped next to him.

"No, stupid bird— roll your foot. You want to diffuse the force, not focus it."

"Oh, more like—?"

He gave her a grunt and a nod. "Let's get a move on."

As he brushed by, she smiled that same little smile that never failed to jab him in the chest.

He pondered as they roamed through the woods in search of prey. A part of him wanted to maintain his normal walking pace so he would have an excuse to yell at her again and distract himself from the loathsome sensations she caused. He shoved down that impulse for the sake of the remaining daylight. The sooner they accomplished his goals, the sooner he could sink into a carafe of thick Dornish red and drown his legion of demons. For her sake, he clipped his gait into a shorter, slower stride.

Damned girl was making him go soft. He would never tolerate the behavior she had displayed earlier in another crewmember. While he was not necessarily known for his punctuality, in truth, the expectations he held for his subordinates were a different matter. And yet, the disappearance of a soldier under his command had never prompted the same reaction that she had drawn from him.

The Hound gritted his teeth. If he were to be honest with himself, he would name that reaction for what it truly was. She was out of his sight for a measly two hours— such a short amount of time given their near-constant proximity in the past few days. There was no reason for him to react the way he had. Anger and frustration at the potential of having to hunt her down were given. He wouldn't have minded a decent hunt, and to consider the little bird his prey with certainty was… exhilarating. His blood burned for the opportunity to chase her down, to show her how wrong she was to not consider him a dog in all things.

Nevertheless, he railed against his instinctual desire to be dishonest. He was consciously trying to shift his focus away from the real problem. To think that he would be reduced to so much soft tissue was unconscionable! His anger had dissipated at her lame explanation, so great was his relief at finding her.

There he hit a patch of thoughts that he was unwilling to traverse. The Hound hated liars, and yet could not push himself to be honest about this one particular matter. He was becoming too soft, too attached, too  _weak_  in matters regarding her, and so he resolved to distance himself. He would instruct her in ways of self-sufficiency and efficacy for his own benefit, and then dump her off on whatever planet he eventually decided upon, preferably for a tidy profit.

If he repeated that to himself enough, perhaps it would serve to completely mask his newfound fear.

He stopped them in front of a tree, covered in thorny vines with clusters of dark, plump berries. He snapped off a sizable tendril with both leaves and fruit, and handed it to her. "What is it?" she asked.

"Moonseed— don't eat it."

"Why not?"

"They're fatally toxic. You'd be lucky if you drowned in your own vomit first."

She dropped the tendril like a chunk of hot slag. He retrieved the vine from the earth and held it out to her once more. She pinched a leafless section between her fingers, looking all the while like he was forcing her to hold a venomous snake. "Moonseed berries are nearly identical to grapes, and they're both climbing vines. You have to look at the leaves to tell them apart. Moonseed leaves are large and waxy. See how the edges are smooth?"

"Yes…" She eyed the plant warily.

"Grape vines have heart-shaped leaves with serrated edges."

"Are there any other poisonous berries I should look for, my lord?" She tossed the piece of vine at the foot of the tree.

"Holly, nightshade, poison ivy, Ashemark ivy—" he ticked off the names on his fingers. "— pokeweed, yew, Blackhaven creeper... ah, hells. Best you just stick with what you know. Then again, most of those look like other edible fruit."

She stared at him in undisguised horror. "Are there any that don't have poisonous imposters?!"

He deliberated for a moment, relishing the dismay on her face. "Strawberries."

"Strawberries?" she repeated, unconvinced.

"Did I stutter?" he growled.

"That's it? Strawberries?"

"Far as I know. Come on."

They resumed their trek through the sparse brush. He made note of how quickly she had caught on to muffling her steps. He considered praising her quietude for a brief moment, before she destroyed it all. "Aren't most of the plants you mentioned vines, my lord?"

So much for silence. "Aye."

"Then what about bushes?"

He grunted. "Three rules: identify it first, make noise, don't pick from the bottom."

"Why would you need to make noise?"

"Bears. They'll get mean if you surprise them, but they usually turn craven if you make sure they hear you coming."

"I don't think that would work on the Mormonts, my lord."

"No little bird, I suppose not."

She was quiet for a few beats, fooling him into thinking that she had sated her curiosity. He should have known better. "My lord?" she peeped.

"What, girl."

"Why don't you pick the berries on the bottom of the bush? That seems like a waste."

"By all means, eat them if you like the taste of animal piss."

She wrinkled her nose. "That's disgusting."

"That's the truth. Every able male mammal within a two-mile radius will have lifted his leg on it. Be glad they tend to be closer to the ground than men."

He was able to exhale heavily before her next burst of conversation.

"That's a contradiction," she blurted.

"Oh?" he said sardonically.

"You said to walk silently and also to make noise to scare off bears. You can't do both."

"Decide what you're going to do first, and then pick one," he sneered. "If you're hunting a bear, you sure as shit don't need him to hear you a mile away."

"Ah." She looked down at the ground, her brow furrowed in contemplation.

The little bird reached a compromise between the two, and began to hum softly. He resisted the urge to tinker with the amplification to better hear her voice. It didn't matter. He recognized the song, and knew the words well enough to imagine what it would sound like were she to sing it in truth. It was not a melody that he heard her play with before, but then, their current environment was likely a more appropriate setting.  _And how she smiled and how she laughed, the maiden of the tree. She spun away and said to him, no featherbed for me_ , he recited the stanza in his head.

She cut off her humming mid-note. "What do you do if the bear doesn't run away?"

"Take it to a fair," his chuckle was hideously distorted by the helmet's microphone.

"That's not funny…"

"Stranger might think so," He smirked. "Make yourself as big as possible and yell. If he attacks you, kill him."

"I couldn't!"

He stopped suddenly, causing her to run into his back. "Shut up."

"I beg your pardon, ser?!" She started to push away from him.

"Keep your damned voice down!" he hissed and grabbed her arm.

The Hound gently pulled her forward to rest flush against his body. It was true that he needed her to be close to minimize her amount of interference. Besides that, he  _wanted_  her to be closer than was actually necessary for whatever odd reason. Probably some psychological bullshit about contact with another human. Regardless, he had never been in the habit of denying himself when he wanted something bad enough. She seemed to understand that there was some need behind his actions and fell both silent and still.

He tweaked the settings on his helmet as he acclimated himself to the sound of her breathing. The previous filter with its faint highlights of heat trails subsided into almost complete darkness. Patches of dark violet were interspersed with varying blobs of gray in the shape of trees and foliage. He pointed his dog's nose toward the ground where he had caught sight of a set of tracks. A faint series of clicks pulsated outward. The faint map of a rabbit's warren flashed with each click, with a large spot of white highlighted in one of the larger chambers.

He grinned. A nice fat hare would be a welcome supplement to the tedium of their soldier's rations.

He returned his visual settings back to default and released the little bird's wrist. "What was it?" she whispered.

"Dinner."

"Oh."

The Hound guided her in front of him, pushing her towards a small clearing where they could work without disturbing the warren. He pointed towards the remnants of a fallen oak, its mighty trunk charred where it had likely been struck by lightning. "Sit there."

She perched upon the cadaver, her face turned upwards expectantly. He lowered himself to the ground at her feet. "Chances are you might not have access to any wire, but there's not enough time find out what vines are here that you could use to make a snare. Here—" he handed her a length of flexible wire from a satchel on his belt, then held up his own. "— watch what I do."

They ended up twisting five snares into existence. The little bird looked down at her handiwork with trepidation, her unease clearly written in the frown on her face. He rolled up to a kneeling position, and grasped her chin between his fingers. "Look at me."

She raised her gaze from the steel slipknots in her lap, and focused on the raised hackles that were mere inches away from her nose. "No more excuses. You turn craven on this— hells, you say the words 'I can't' one more time— and I'll make you wish I pushed you out the airlock."

She swallowed. "You won't hurt me."

"All men are liars, little bird. You should know that by now." He rocked back on his heels and stood.

"Then what about you?"

"Hmph. Dog's don't lie."

 

* * *

 

 

The little bird gawked at the animal caught in the trap. Her eyes swam with withheld tears at the rabbit's hoarse screams. It allowed its muscles a moment of reprieve before resuming its frantic efforts to free itself. Sandor Clegane grinned widely. Much as the little bird enjoyed meat, it seemed that facing the reality of where it came from was too tough for her to swallow. He savored her distress a little while longer, then removed his dagger from his belt and ended the creature's desperate thrashing with a well-placed thump of the pommel to its head.

He released the rabbit's foot from the snare, sliced through its carotid arteries, and tipped it upside-down. When the creature's heart ceased pumping all of the blood from its body, he held it out to the little bird by its ears. A crescent of scarlet blood shined through the velvety fur on its neck. She managed to keep from shaking as she cradled the dead animal in her arms. He held out the dagger to her, hilt first. "Make a ring around the leg joints here—" he made a circle around the rear legs with his finger. "— then make an incision up the insides of the legs to its asshole. And be careful not to slice too deep."

Her gaze flickered between his metal face and the dagger. She grasped the weapon gingerly. "I—" She started.

"Am testing my patience," he growled. "Do it, craven."

"I'm not a craven," she muttered.

She poised the tip of the blade onto the rabbit's left rear foot. Her brow furrowed. "It's not fair. She didn't do anything wrong…" she mumbled.

"But she's dead anyway. Better to benefit from it if you can."

"My mother says it's wrong to profit from death."

He laughed mirthlessly. "Pretty words, and just as false as those knights you love so much. Everything dies, everything profits from death. You can't escape it."

"But there are plenty of people that have never killed anyone."

"Blind little bird, only able to see what's right in front of your nose! Life isn't isolated to mankind. Look around you. The trees are alive, the grass is alive. The aurochs eats the grass, people eat the aurochs, the people die and are buried, and the grass grows back on the nutrients put into the soil by their rotting corpses. Life thrives on death."

She pursed her lips and started cutting into the rabbit's flesh. He observed her carefully, watching for any tics, any shifts in her face that might betray weakness. She stayed stone cold, however, as he tutored her through the process to separate the rabbit's skin from its muscle. She removed the head without faltering, and handed him back the dagger after disposing of the rabbit's skin.

It was only when the time came for her to eviscerate the carcass that she lost her composure. To her credit, she had been able to make a clean incision down its chest cavity while avoiding rupturing any of the internal organs. She pulled out two inches of its small intestines before thrusting the carcass at him and running off into the brush. The familiar sound of retching came soon after.

He decided to give her a break.  _Intestines, stomach, spleen, lungs heart,_ the Hound thought as he yanked out the various organs and tossed them away. He separated the gallbladder from the liver and put the latter to the side.

"I'm sorry," Sansa said as she returned, pale and disheveled.

"Don't be," he muttered as he sliced off the hind feet. The Hound pointed at the only remaining organ with the point of the dagger. "See how the liver's dark? If you find one with yellow or white spots, don't eat the meat. Means the rabbit's diseased."

She nodded weakly. "Could we go back to the ship now? If it pleases you, that is."

A stroke a pity rose in his chest. "All right, little bird. Come on."

 

* * *

 

 

<Content statement: It is good to have both you and Lady Sansa back within range of my defensive weaponry.>

The Hound looked up from the spit he was roasting the skinned rabbit over. Normally, he would rely on the cooking apparatus within the primary cargo hold to nuke whatever fresh meat he had gotten his hands on to a somewhat edible level. In light of his Navigator's (and he allowed himself that bit of possessiveness) accomplishments, he decided to do things the old fashioned way. There was something about declining the use of technology— besides the fire provided by his vibraknife— to forge something with one's own hand that was oddly appealing.

"So it's 'Lady Sansa'now?" he removed the meat from the fire to douse it with more Dornish sour from his flask. "Good to see your mug too, you ugly son of a bitch"

<Snappy rejoinder: I believe you are referring to your mother, whom I engaged in sexual relations with.>

"RAM-deprived sexroid."

<Mangy flea-fucker.>

"Tin shithead."

<Ass-sniffing cock-licker.>

"Virus-ridden son of a Ghiscari TI-82."

<Offended response: I request that you take that back.>

"I would if it wasn't true," the Hound smirked.

"Is something wrong, Stranger?" the little bird chirped as she walked down the gangplank with two plates of steaming potatoes and whole corn.

A shower and change of clothes had done much to revitalize her spirit after emptying her stomach in the woods earlier. Though she had changed into one of the finer gowns in her scant wardrobe (obviously regarding things safe enough to forgo her Nav suit), she had left her damp hair unbound. The sun had set nearly an hour ago, allowing the fire to fully bring out the burnished copper highlights in her mane.

<Sulking reply: I have done nothing to deserve this abuse.>

"You started it," the Hound growled.

"Truly, Stranger, you're the mightiest Courser I've ever seen. I wouldn't be surprised if you were the mightiest in all of Westeros," she chirped as she sat down on the bare earth with little regard for the condition of her dress. "I'm sure the captain doesn't mean it."

<Petulant acknowledgement: I shall accept your reassurance, my lady.>

"It smells delicious," the little bird hummed with pleasure.

"Everything smells good when your stomach's empty," he retorted, attempting to use his inherent nastiness to mask the pride her compliment stoked in him.

She ignored him to sing instead. He recognized the strangely plaintive song as being Valyrian, and sung in a lower register than she usually employed. For that reason, he believed it was originally meant to be sung by males. He turned the rabbit over the flames, allowing the only substance that he hated as much as Gregor to change the raw flesh into palatable food.

" 'Once I lived on lakes, once I looked beautiful when I was a swan. The servant is turning me on the spit; I am burning fiercely on the pyre: the steward now serves me up. Now I lie on a plate, and cannot fly anymore, I see bared teeth,' " She translated when she finished. "And the chorus goes 'Misery me! Now black and roasting fiercely!' "

He watched the fat drip into the fire with crackling hisses. His guts clenched, his palms began to sweat. He backed away from the spit and drank deeply from the flask of wine. "My lord?" the little bird said in a small voice.

"What?" he managed to keep the rage out of his voice, though the burnt side of his face twitched madly.

"I'm sorry. I won't sing it again."

He looked over to her. His insides fought over what to feel when she looked at him like that, so earnest and pitying and full of her brand of innocent compassion. It made him sick and angry, yet breeding in him a queer longing that he had thought had died off long ago. Instead of snapping at her like he was inclined, he shook his head and sighed. "Some of the little bird's songs would be better left unexplained."

She chewed on her bottom lip, then lifted her voice again. " _Altri che voi so ben che non m'intende_ …"

This song was sweeter, gentler and… Pentoshi, if he was not mistaken. He pulled the rabbit off the spit and prodded the flesh with his fingers. Seeing that it was done, he set the roast onto a platter. He sawed off a large hunk of one of the rear legs and set it on her plate, next to the ear of golden corn glistening with melted butter.

She took the plate from him graciously, but still regarded him with apprehension. "Shall I translate that one for you, my lord?"

"Later."

They watched the moon rise as they ate, then the stars when there was nothing left on their respective plates but grease. The little bird tilted her head backwards. "When I was little, I used to think that the stars were different every night."

He studied the play on firelight on the expanse of her throat as he drank from his second flask of wine. "How old were you?"

"I don't remember. Arya was just born, I think, so very young. Three, maybe? I didn't believe my father when he told me they weren't, so he taught me how to find the constellations. Then he had to convince me they weren't the same on every planet." She chuckled. "It's funny when you think about it. Every planet has their own stars to navigate by, but people end up giving them the same names no matter where they go. Isn't that strange?"

"Hm. Then that must be the Ice Dragon," he pointed at a line of jagged stars.

She looked at the patch of space he had indicated and frowned. "I don't see it."

"How can you not, stupid bird? Look, that bright one there would be the rider's eye."

The little bird got up from her seat to stand next to him and follow the path of his arm up his finger, and out into the atmosphere. "I don't think that's pointing north," she murmured.

"What makes you think I'm wrong?" he snapped.

"Nothing, my lord!" She stammered. "Just… just a feeling."

"Stranger."

<Query: how may I serve?>

"Which direction is north?" he asked between drinks from the near empty flask.

<Specification need: magnetic north or geodetic north?>

"Magnetic."

<Processing… Magnetic north would be found at your 11:52 position, and Lady Sansa's 12 o' clock.>

"I'll be damned," he muttered. "Not such a stupid bird after all."

"I think I shall retire," She flushed and took a step back. "With your leave, my lord."

"Stay— I mean, wait a while— Just—" his drunken tongue would not form the words in his head. He gave up trying. "Fuck it all. Do whatever you want."

She stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do. He half hoped she would flee into the ship and leave him to his inanity. The fall of night changed the nature of man, or so the saying went. It seemed that the moonlight had changed his nature into that of a dumbstruck ass.

Against his expectations, she did not leave. Ever so slowly, the little bird lowered herself to the ground next to his right side. They sat in silence, but for the snapping flames and a small choir of grasshoppers.

"That's the Ice Dragon," she finally said. "And I think the Shadowcat would be over there."

"Which puts the Sword of the Morning over there," he rumbled.

"Right," she smiled gently. "And the Moonmaid is there."

"I think she'd be better put over there."

She rolled her eyes. "You can't put her next to the Shadowcat, my lord."

"Why not? That cluster of white dwarfs could be the hem of her gown."

"No, you have to put her there."

"Why there?"

"So the Sword of the Morning and the Stallion can protect her, of course."

They fell back into muteness, though this one was infinitely more companionable. He finished off the flask of wine then reached for another. Beside him, he could sense the little bird shifting uncomfortably. "What is it, girl?"

"I was just wondering where we are going?"

He glowered at the dying flames, wondering how he should respond to her question, if he wouldn't regret telling her what he had hidden so far. He cleared his throat. "Maidenpool."

"What's in Maidenpool?"

"Supplies. Information."

"Information?" she repeated suspiciously.

"You want me to leave you at Riverrun if your bloody brother has already buggered off?" he spat.

"No…"

"That's what I thought. Fly away now, little bird," He opened his third flask for the night. "You'll be back to your nest soon enough."

"Good night, my lord," she said as she rose from the ground.

He listened to the sound of her skirts rustling as she walked until he could hear it no longer. The Hound drank under the light of foreign stars and wondered— not for the first time— if the decision he had made was the right one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand pardons, my good readers! I had a lot of stuff going on, culminating in dropping my summer classes. As always, I hope you enjoy, and please consider leaving a comment.
> 
> Sansa's first song is from Carmina Burana, as composed by Carl Orff. Specifically "Cignus Ustus Cantat". (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PKQt9o70KY4)  
> The second is another madrigal by Arcadelt, this time "Altri che voi". (Sadly, I can't find an actual performance of the piece.)
> 
> Much love, my friends. 'MURIKA.


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of rape and sexual violence.

He was waiting before the grand doors that separated the throne room from the rest of the world. Two gold cloaks stood before the door, silent and warding, their eyes pale blue and vacant behind their polished visors. His stomach was filled with ice, but he was not sure why. The Red Keep had never been a place of vacillation for him before.

At some unknown signal, the gold cloaks slammed the butts of their spears on the marble floor, then stood aside. The immense doors parted before him, driven by an archaic gear-driven mechanism.

He entered the throne room on tentative feet. A path rolled out in front of him in red velvet. To either side of the carpet were the shrouded figures of every soul he had ever killed: old men, heavily armored Knights, a smattering of servant women and young children. They displayed the manner of their deaths visibly; here a camp follower with a blue face and bruised neck, there a youth, no older than twelve, with black hoof marks trailing up his bare torso to a dented, leaking skull. Several Knights and infantrymen clutched severed limbs and heads, with bits of their flesh singed from the electrical force of his gauntlets.

Unconsciously, he stepped forward. Though the throne itself was veiled in darkness, a wealth of banners glowed behind it. All of them were noble houses in the North Galaxy. Knott, Locke, Tallhart, Ryswell, Glover, Mormont, Manderly; Umber and Bolton were raised among the others, and House Stark above them.

Then his foot hit something unpleasantly squelchy.

He looked away from the resplendent banners to the floor. At the foot of the dais was a pride of flayed lions. The skins were fresh and oozed trails of bloody froth. Tywin Lannister’s sightless eyes glared out into the crowd of dead souls beside Cersei’s comically opened maw. There alongside her were the juxtaposed skins of the Imp and the Kingslayer, followed by Tommen, Myrcella, and—

He stepped over the rest of Joffrey’s flesh after having planted his foot firmly onto the boy’s ass. But if the boy-king was there, then who—?

The shadows over the Iron Throne lifted. Gregor smirked at him maniacally. He was clad in fine armor, all shiny white scale polymer and chrome. His helmet was crowned with a pair of ornamental wings that rose from the hinges of the visor. An enormous cloak of white ermine swirled around him. The bastard looked just like a Knight from a song.

And upon his lap was the little bird.

She was garbed in an elaborate gown in white and gray, with a delicate silver circlet resting upon her brow. Black ichor leaked from the gaps in Gregor’s ceremonial armor, caused by the piercing of Aegon’s thousand conquered swords, yet not a single drop touched her or marred the perfection of her raiment.

_No…_

“Who is it that stands before me?” she piped, her small voice filling the chamber.

“Sandor Clegane, called the Hound, of House Clegane, from the Planet Autumn Keep in the Western System of the Gold Galaxy, bannerman of the dead Lions of Lannister and well-known chickenshit,” Gregor boomed.

_No, no, girl, little bird, this isn’t—_

“Silence!” she commanded, her fists slamming on the back of Gregor’s gauntlets. “What does this man stand accused of?”

“High treason, kidnapping of a highborn maiden, murder, ill treatment of highborn prisoners of war, physical assault, grand theft, sexual deviancy, and exposing his ugly face to the light of day.”

Strings of black spittle flew past her cheeks as Gregor spoke, but she did not even flinch. The little bird looked down her nose at him. “How do you plead, ser?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice was drowned out by the throng of souls— several hundred strong— shouting “GUILTY! GUILTY!” A young boy in the front of the crowd screeched “MURDERER!” so violently, that he could not hold the cleaved sections of his torso together.

The little bird held up a hand, and the crowd went silent immediately. “A verdict has been reached,” she said before hopping off Gregor’s lap.

Her slippered feet carried her down the steps of the dais with a graceful gait. “Kneel, ser,” she placed her palms against his chest.

Gregor reached down from the Iron Throne— his massive arms elongated far beyond any rational length— gripped his shoulders, and forced him onto his knees.

Gregor started laughing as the little bird rested her hands on the knuckles of his gauntlets. Her eyes smoldered an icy blue as she said, “I, Sansa of the House Stark, first of my name, Queen of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, do sentence you to die. Have you any last words?”

_Sansa…_

 

Gregor tightened his fingers on his shoulders, cackling all the while. The little bird leaned in, pressed her lips to his, and then burst into flames.

 

* * *

 

 

Sandor Clegane snapped into consciousness. He groaned softly as he lifted his scarred cheek from the central console. The first muzzy thought to rise from his waking mind was a curiosity about how warm he felt. He kept the ship relatively cool outside of combat. Dozing in the cock pit had never resulted in him accumulating this much body heat. Therefore, he must still be on fire.

The Hound sat up with a start, sending a rush of thick material towards the ground. He looked down incredulously. It was just a blanket. No… _the_ blanket. From the bed. Which meant that she was awake.

He checked the time on the console, seeing that the lights were still dimmed as part of the nocturnal simulator, then picked up the comforter from the floor. After listening for a moment, he padded down the hallway and into the unlit secondary cargo hold.

Beyond the tidy arsenal of weapons (all deactivated at the moment, of course), and his cache of solid currency, the little bird sat, perched on top of the subordinate water reservoir. The water lapped against the sides of the tank, tinted a deep turquoise by the Myrish glass that formed the majority of the container.

The internal UV cleansers provided the only illumination in the room. Undulating white helixes played on the underside of her arms and the curve of her jaw. Similar ropes of light danced across her cheek as she sang a wordless song. Her fingers drew out a mournful counterpoint all the while. Occasionally, she would pause mid-note and replay a passage, only to change this or that phrase and play it again.

She became increasingly upset with the song, having redone the latest passage eight separate ways without satisfaction. Glittering tears of frustration rose in her eyes. She quickly swiped them away with the back of her hand and played the piece from the beginning.

The tune was entirely foreign to him, but the style didn’t sound like anything from across the Narrow Sea that she had played previously. As he leaned against the doorframe, the Hound concluded that he had stumbled into the middle of one of her secret songs. A part of him said that he should leave her in peace, yet he could not find the motivation to walk away.

She reached the obstacle in her song once again, and was still unable to surmount it, choosing instead to strum a cacophonic chord and set aside her lute with a huff. “Curse it all, it’s just not the same without percussion…” she muttered.

He took a step backwards to leave, but the swish of fabric on the floor betrayed his presence. The little bird’s head wheeled around in his direction, her eyes wide with concern. “My lord…”

“You’re up awful early,” he held up the black comforter.

She flushed. “I, uh, couldn’t get back to sleep and you looked cold so…”

He shrugged. “I prefer the cold.”

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence. He watched the whites of her eyes glow as she looked around the room awkwardly. So different from the imperious little bird in his dream. The feathered creature before him now was far too timid to serve as any sort of effective queen; she for damned sure didn’t have the guts to kill anyone, let alone burn them alive. He was struck with a sudden thought.

He did not want her to be queen.

He did not want her to be transformed into an animal of spite and venom like Cersei, or otherwise reduced to haggard survival like Rhaella. If she were as ruthless as the monarch he had dreamed up, they would not be here. She would have found some way to save herself, or he would not have been spurred to steal her away in the first place, after having been en— no. That was too much. He had to take that word and kill it before it sprouted into something he was unwilling, or more likely unable, to shove back into its cage.

“Sing for me,” he croaked, hoping against hope that the sound of her voice would drive it away.

Her brow furrowed in thought for a moment. She glanced at him hesitantly, before strumming a simple accompaniment on her lute. Without a second thought, he strode through the oblivion— blanket still in hand— to sit on the floor and press the burned side of his face against the cool glass.

“Ah, ah, alas, you salt sea gods, bow down your ears divine. Lend ladies here warm water springs to moist their crystal eune,” she sang, her voice quavering with melancholic passion.

He watched the light flash on the lids of her closed eyes, bringing in and out of existence the fine pink tint to her flesh behind her ruddy lashes.

“That they may weep and wail and wring their hands with me, for death of lord and husband mine: alas, alas, alas…”

She would not have fared well as Joffrey’s bride. His guts clenched as his mind conjured images of what that torture might look like.

The boy-king would become clever in his cruelty as he became older. He’d start by hewing through the little bird’s maidenhood with his nascent brutality; like as not, the boy’s prick wouldn’t be developed enough to really traumatize her. No, that would come later, to a fanfare of poorly disguised bruises and agonized limps.

With what he knew of the boy, Clegane could guess with near certainty that Joffrey would have laid siege to the little bird’s last bastion. He had already begun to test her fortifications before the Blackwater; after he had been granted further rights over her in the eyes of gods and men, he would have nothing to impede his wanton destruction.

The Hound could almost smell the fresh blood slipping down the catgut strings of her viola de gamba from lacerations that Joffrey would inflict upon her finger pads—no doubt in the proxy form of the of the _good sers_ of the Kingsguard— before commanding her to play.

The blood would certainly stain the bleached horsehair on her bow a dark crimson on its trek down the frets. That would make it increasingly harder for her to play properly. Once Joffrey found a large enough mistake, he would have Trant or Blount strike her. She would likely shield the viol from harm, which would be simple, considering that it would already be situated between her legs in its proper playing position.

He remembered distinctly that she hated that particular instrument, bedecked in lions as it was; Joff would, like as not, want her to play upon that one for the sheer humiliation of it all, though the viol she brought from Winterfell was sweeter in tone.

The burnt side of his face twitched. Joffrey would make the beautiful music she created into a source of unutterable agony, bit by bit. Death would be far sweeter than to subject her to that. For that very reason, he would kill her if they were captured by any Iron Throne loyalists.

“Come death, alas, o death most sweet, for now I crave to die,” she finished the aria with a minor chord and set aside her lute.

“What kept you up?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said you couldn’t get back to sleep. What kept you?”

“Oh… I had a nightmare.”

She paused, as if unsure how to proceed, then plowed forward.

“You…” The little bird averted her eyes and blushed furiously, causing his curiosity to raise its vigilant head. “You left me behind and they made me marry the Imp, and he was going to— going to make me…”

Her knuckles went white as she clenched her fists. “But Joffrey was right there. He said he was going to have a Lannister stuck in me, but I needed to be trained first. He grabbed me and opened the doors to the terrace. There was a— a whole mob of angry men and he _threw_ me to them—!”

He was almost sorry he asked. What did he know of the dreams of women? He had his own to deal with, and he usually managed those with a full flagon of wine and a decent fight. Or a fuck, he wasn’t picky. Still, she had sang prettily for him, had made a valiant effort at being a good Navigator. The least he could do was say something.

His stupid tongue managed a pathetic “It’s only a dream, little bird.”

She seemed content with that response, and began singing the Pentoshi song from the night before. “Che n’ lor presenza m’e piu caro il morir che ‘l viver senza,” her voice implored in a silver cascade of notes.

The last waves of her melody faded into the darkness. She considered him from above with a peculiar look on her face, though that might have been from the mercurial light. “That song you were playing earlier…” he started to say, causing her to tense.

She was saved from the rest of his sentence by the raising of the overhead lights.

<Good morrow captain, Lady Sansa. It is currently the hour of dawn, Westeros Standard Time. We are currently 5.2 days from Maidenpool, and experiencing no delays, environmental or otherwise,> Stranger chimed with cheery nonchalance. <If you would be so kind, captain, I believe there are some adjustments to be made concerning the hydraulic retraction system now that the fluid has stabilized.>

“Bugger it all, listen to you! Talking like you’re some noble cunt’s Palfrey,” the Hound sneered.

<Jovial reply: it is far more entertaining to offend your sensibilities than Lady Sansa’s.>

“Fine,” he pushed off of the cold floor with his hand, his knees popping audibly. “Put a reminder on my comp drive to replace you with something less demanding when we dock.”

<Command received, you son of a bitch.>

“Go fuck yourself.”

<Wry suggestion: I could bugger you first if you purchase the right upgrades.>

“Stranger!” the little bird cried. “That’s highly improper!”

<It is merely a suggestion to help fulfill the demands of the Holistic Protocol, as the captain has not relieved himself in—>

“All right!” the Hound interrupted. “Mouthy little shit…”

“My lord—” she glanced at him queerly.

“Never mind,” he grunted. “Put that away whenever you’re finished.” He pointed at the blanket on the floor before exiting the secondary cargo hold.

Clegane entered the engine bay and sealed the door behind him. He walked around the reactor’s containment field, crossed the threshold that led to the maintenance room, and opened the stats for the hydraulics system on the wall-mounted computer. “So what’s this really about?” he growled. “System’s not that far out of whack.”

<Serious reply: I have received some information through reputable channels that required your immediate attention.>

“And you couldn’t tell me there?” He was more than a bit irritated at having been pulled from the little bird’s side.

<Negative. This information is sensitive in nature. According to the Holistic Protocol—>

“Gods above, just say it.”

<It might be more prudent to display it. With your leave, captain.>

“Do it.”

<Command received.>

The screen before him rippled as the waves were compressed and translated to text. He scanned the report once, then thoroughly read through it three times just to be sure. Much to his dismay, his eyes were not playing tricks on him. “Shit,” he murmured.

<The statuses of Brandon and Rickon Stark have not been con— incoming message. Displaying now.>

Line by line, several images rose alongside the text, one more prominent that the rest. Two charred, scourged bodies, about the sizes two young boys would be, were hanging over the portcullis of a razed castle he recognized as Winterfell.

“Seven fucking hells.”

<Query: how would you like to proceed?>

Stupid squids. Stupid _fucking_ Greyjoys.

“Don’t tell the girl. Restrict access to any waves about this...  thing.”

<Query: is that the wisest course of action, captain? The information I have gathered so far has led me to conclude that Lady Sansa would prefer to be informed.>

“I’ll take care of it,” he snapped. “Focus on your damn job.”

<Command received.>

“Fuck.”

 

He ran his fingers through what hair was left on his scalp, exhaling heavily through gritted teeth all the while. The Hound wiped the information from the computer’s log. One could never be too careful.

For shits and giggles, he completed the required maintenance on the hydraulics. A vision of two small, flayed corpses adhered itself to the backs of his eyelids, and the faint smell of scorched flesh rose from his memory.

 

* * *

 

“ _Manaeragon_ is ‘to lift’ or ‘to raise’. _Manaeran, manaeri, manaeraa, manaeraat, manaerza, manaerzi_ …”

Fifteen minutes prior, the little bird had decided she was bored with playing music and studying intermediate circuitry. What kind of head injury she had suffered to make her think that creating a primer on High Valyrian would be entertaining, the Hound could only guess at. Probably extensive, if his dim memories of subjunctives and indicatives were correct.

He had grumbled about the amount of space such a project would take up, and she had offered to wipe one of the few data disks in her bag. He could not bring himself to agree to such a thing, especially in light of recent events, and begrudgingly allowed her access to the CIU’s memory unit. The grateful look she had given him stabbed him clear through the chest.

Damn her, she was not making things easy.

He was seated in the gunner’s place with his feet propped on the console, pretending to read on a data pad while he ran through potential ways to break the news to her. In the day that had passed, he had hardly been able to stay in the same room as her, let alone come up with anything to say. Every single one of his mental scenarios had ended poorly. _Little bird, your brothers were murdered— no. News says your father’s not alone anymore— no. So if you thought the Lannisters were bad— fuck no. Shit. Maybe I could have Stranger do it._

He knew immediately that was a terrible idea. A scene of that catastrophe played out perfectly in his head:

<Knock, knock.> Stranger would say, trying to soften the blow with humor.

“Who’s there,” she would respond.

<Your brothers are dead.>

Cue bouts of intolerable weeping, hysterics, and possible destruction of his equipment.

The little bird laughed merrily as she corrected Stranger’s pronunciation. He grimaced and cast her a sideways glance.

Her hair had been pulled away from her face in a Northern fashion after being tamed from its morning unruliness. She was clad in her Nav suit and the samite gown from the battle. She had modified it since then, using the one remaining sleeve to change it into a halter-necked dress and adding modest ruched slits up the sides.

He shifted in his seat. The microscopic scales on his bodysuit rasped against each other with a cruel hiss. He would not be caught off guard again; if anyone attacked them now, they would face his fully integrated wrath.

The little bird paused her conversation with the AI to pivot around her chair around and face him. “Might I ask what you’re reading, my lord?”

He grunted. “Some idiot from the Reach is proposing a form of instant transport using tachyons.”

Her brow furrowed. “What are tachyons?”

“Particle that moves faster than light.”

“I thought nothing could travel faster than light.”

He scoffed. “How fast do you think we’re going right now, stupid bird?”

 “Not fast enough for teleportation, you’ve made that very clear,” she huffed in return. Then in a more placating tone, she said, “How would that work, if it please you?”

The Hound quoted a few passages of the incredibly technical treatise, and was met with a distressed stare. He sighed. “Come here.”

She rose from her seat and trotted to his side. He tried to ignore the pressure of her hand on the back of his chair as he wiped the data pad’s screen clean. At his finger’s touch, a crudely drawn songbird appeared. “Physical things— planets, people, all that shit— exist in four dimensions. Three spatial, one temporal. Time only goes one way for us.” Next to the bird, he drew a chart with three axes, labeled ‘height’, ‘width’, ‘length’, and an arrow above the chart labeled ‘time’.

“Tachyons also exist in four dimensions, but three of them are temporal while the other is spatial.” Beneath the bird and its chart, he drew a circle and another chart with three axes, each axis being labeled either ‘past’, ‘present’, or ‘future’. Alongside that, he drew a line segment with two dots on it.

“This is a peasant-level explanation, but that dumb bastard of a Fossoway says he could instantly transport shit by sending things back in time.”

“I think I understand now,” she said, looking thoughtfully at his diagrams. “But that doesn’t explain why he’s foolish.”

“Even if his hypothesis is right— which it’s not. Temporal dimensions don’t work the way he says they do— he’s never going to get the funding to research it enough to apply it.”

She released the back of his seat to lean against the console. “The Citadel is a wealthy institution. Surely—”

“Not wealthy enough. For what he’s proposing, you’d need a fleet’s weight in dragons, probably a coalition of the nobility. The great houses aren’t going to do that.”

“Why not?” she frowned. “That would be incredibly useful, to be able to transport food quickly between galaxies and with winter coming…”

“The highborn are more focused on maintained their power base and the smallfolk are either too stupid or too spineless to do anything about it. Why else do you think this—” he gestured at the ship. “—kind of tech isn’t widespread on the planets?”

Her frown turned into a slight pout. “The Valyrians used technology lost to us to harness the power of their sun and caused it to go supernova through their greed. Our planetary technology is restricted to prevent a repeat of their mistakes and further damaging any ecosystems,” she recited, as if being quizzed by her septa.

He scoffed. “Who told you that?”

“I read it in a book.”

“You believe everything you read?” the Hound smirked.

“I do when it’s written by several maesters well-respected in the field of history,” she shot back.

“Piss on that. A few old men say one thing, a few more say another. They don’t really know what caused the Doom, but they’ll use it as an excuse, and the sheep will go along with any reason they can find to not think.” His lips curled nastily into a mirthless grin at the sight of her stormy expression. “Your fat lords aren’t going to do anything. Can you imagine Tywin Lannister dropping a single golden shit if he thought it would benefit your kind? No. It wouldn’t happen.”

Her scowl deepened as she pondered with crossed arms. He filled his lungs with air, hoping to capture more of her unaltered scent while she was so close. She finally met his stare with one of her own, those bright blue orbs sparking with defiance. His heart thrummed in his chest. “That doesn’t make it right.”

“Aye, might be it’s not. But that’s the way of it.”

She studied him for a moment before returning to the Navigator’s place, and resuming her work with Stranger like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t noticed that she had looked him straight in the face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get up! (that's what he said)  
> I've been working just about 6 days a week ;___;  
> Sansa sings "Ah, alas you salt sea gods" by Richard Farrant. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N_NzW7qSxN0), as well as "Altri che voi" by Arcadelt.


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for male rape.

“I thought you said we were less than five days from Maidenpool the other day. Why is it close to six now?”

<Affirmative. Estimates are based on Maidenpool’s position within its orbit around its sun, which has shifted in such a manner that we will encounter greater impediments.>

“Oh. That makes sense.”

“…”

“Do you ever get tired of your name?”

<Clarification needed.>

“I don’t think I would enjoy being named after the god of death. Have you ever thought about asking the captain to change it?”

<Processing…>

<Contemplative reply: it is not something I have devoted computing power towards. Before my purchase, I was a serial number. Once the captain acquired me, I developed a concept of self. It could be argued that being a someone, any someone, is better than being a some _thing_. >

“Oh…”

<Wry response: besides, it is more acceptable if I am an impertinent ass as the Stranger than any of the other gods.>

“Ha! I think your master deserves more credit than you’re giving him.”

<Affirmative, Lady Sansa.>

<Query: shall we continue studying the reactor containment field generator?>

“…”

“The captain already knows all of this, correct?”

<Affirmative.>

“And he is more than capable of repairing anything that could go wrong?”

<Affirmative. Any repair that is outside the captain’s ability to execute would likely be fatal.>

“Then there’s really no point in me learning any advanced repairs.”

<Frustrated explanation: overlap in ability does not correlate with redundancy.>

“Well, yes, but anything that I can do, the captain can do in half as much time with far fewer mistakes. Is it not so?”

<…>

“Stranger.”

<Affirmative.>

“Then it doesn’t make any sense to devote all this time to it.”

<Irritated reply: you have your orders, and I have mine, Lady Stark. I cannot operate outside of them.>

“I’m not asking you to. I’d just like to do something that the captain can’t.”

<Processing…>

<Displayed is a list of skillsets that the captains rates as average or below average in.  You may select any of the ones highlighted in blue.>

“…”

“I think I’ll do… this one. Thank you, Stranger.”

 

<Wry response: you won’t be thanking me when the captain finds out.>

 

* * *

 

 

The sky above was gray. Damp ozone permeated the air, the cumulus clouds above pregnant with the coming rain. Heralding thunder rumbled in the far distance. Cold winds flared against the ambling hills, but he paid them no mind.

His head was nestled in a hammock of fine silk, warmed by the radiant heat of a pair of milky thighs. Deft fingernails massaged his scalp in long, tender drags. The little bird looked down at him with an odd half-smile. Her hair whipped about her face, unbound and looking for all the world like a nest of wild embers. She leaned over him and touched their nosetips together.

“It can’t last forever, you know,” she murmured against his forehead.

He said to her all of the things that he had been meaning to say, but she placed a finger over his mouth and shook her head. “You’re running out of time. Look.”

He saw, cresting in the clouds, a giant wolf with a foaming maw; a pair of towers with blood leaking between gaps in the mortar; a haggard feline in a hedge labyrinth; a small bird circling over snow-covered ruins, dense icy shadows looming behind. He closed his eyes to a vision of flames consuming the horizon and shuddered.

“You can’t run forever.”

 _You’re wrong_.

She chuckled. “Where will you go when the road runs out?”

 _I don’t know_.

“A wolf doesn’t need paths. A wolf makes its own. And a wolf can run much farther than a dog.”

 _You wouldn’t fucking dare_.

She shrugged. “Not yet. You still have something I want.”

The little bird slid her hands down his chest and to the keys on his body suit. He grabbed her hands. _No_.

She smirked. “Do you think you can stop me?”

She swatted away his grasp and pressed in the release pattern. Her fingers peeled away the tungsten-kevlar suit. He grabbed her wrist again. _Little bird…_

“Don’t act like you don’t want it,” she ran her hands across his chest, shoving away the armor from his bare flesh.

_Stop it._

“No.”

She slipped out from underneath him to straddle his lap. “Tell me you don’t want this,” her eyes were blazing with fervor.

_I don’t want this—_

“You’re such a liar. I hate liars.”

She thrust her hand into the crotch of his suit and squeezed.

_No—_

“Look at you, liar,” she said as she freed his arousal. “If you didn’t want it, why are you so hard?”

_Dammit Sansa—_

“You’re even wet for me,” her thumb spread the pre-cum leaking from the head of his cock.

He groaned aloud as she stroked him.

“Wanton old dog, aren’t you? Don’t tell me you don’t want this,” she purred as she positioned his cock between her folds. “You’re begging for it.”

_Sansa stop—!_

“No. You belong to me.”

She impaled herself on his shaft, burying him deep in hot, blinding pleasure. Her inner walls tensed around him as she pulled away, only to thrust him back in to the hilt. She latched onto his jugular while she rolled her hips, nipping and suckling as if to leave her mark. Horror and lust raged in him like alternating electrical currents. Against his will he pushed against her, and she howled.

_Sansa!_

She pulled away to glare at him with golden eyes. “Give me everything.”

He grabbed her hips and began to pound into her. “More, more, more!” She cried into the hollow of his shoulder.

Desperately, he increased the pace of his thrusts, plunging in and out of her with such abandon that he could no longer tell if there was a rhythm to their coupling or not. “It’s not enough,” she panted. “I want more.”

 

And then, as he was thrown over the threshold of completion, she ripped out his throat.

 

* * *

 

 

The Hound woke with an uncomfortable erection. His discomfort came, not from the physical pressure of his engorged flesh (which, by this point in his life, he was accustomed to), but from the dream that inspired it.

He was a twisted fuck. It wasn’t bad enough to corrupt the little bird into something more useful than a lady; no, he had to conjure up phantoms of aggressive, wanton she-wolves to drain him of life and seed. That couldn’t be normal.

He focused on his breathing until the blood flowed back into his other brain. Clegane groped about for his bodysuit. It had slipped beneath the bed while he had slept. He was forced to leave the warm confines of the blanket to grab it, deflating his cock even more rapidly into its dormant state as the cool air hit his balls. It was a relief to seal the keys on his ribs and allow the suit to heat up to a homeostatic temperature.

He would spend some time in the pit toying with the weapons system. Perhaps seeing the little bird as she was— innocent and completely uninterested in what he had to offer— would cure his lizard brain of its obsession. He walked down the hall into the cockpit and found…

“What in the seven hells do you think you’re doing?!”

The little bird froze, her hand hovering above the thigh of a naked male displayed on a screen at the Navigator’s station. “I— my lord, captain!— I can explain, that is—” she stuttered, her cheeks flushed a flaming red. “It’s not what you think!”

“The fuck am I supposed to think?!”

“I—I—!”

<Wry explanation: Lady Sansa has decided to focus her studies on the healing arts rather than mechanics. Such is permitted under the training parameters of ensign-level instruction, Lord Pervert.>

“And who gave her permission, shit wit?!”

<Calm response: Permission was not required based on the structure of the programming, even after the modifications you made following the grav sys incident.>

“You—!”

A cool hand was laid on his forearm. “Please,” the little bird implored. “Let me help. Please.”

“And what will your lady mother say when I return her daughter with more in her pretty head than husbands and squalling brats?” He jeered.

“My lord brother will appreciate another hand that can help, I am sure. We’re still at war after all. Besides—” she averted her gaze and smiled ruefully. “— I think that damage was already done.”

“Fixing men is different from fixing ships. You haven’t found gore to your liking so far.”

She frowned and gave a small huff of frustration. “My lord, if Stranger is damaged you are far more capable than I am of repairing him. You, however, are not as capable at healing yourself, if Stranger’s analysis is to be trusted.”

<Offended retort: would I lie to you, Lady?>

He scoffed. “How far will you degrade yourself, working on lesser men and dogs?”

She flinched. A dark, heated flush rose on her cheeks. “And who was the one who started that, ser?” The little bird returned hotly. “You took me from Kings Landing and commanded me to become a Navigator and I complied. If anyone is to blame, it is you.”

He laughed, but it was not from any actual mirth. “Aye, I’ll take the blame for stealing your ungrateful ass from the lions,” the Hound jeered.

“Ungrateful?! Ungrateful?!” she fairly shrieked.

<Lady Stark—>

“You heard me!” he roared back. “Ungrateful, simpering, useless girl—”

She snatched his left wrist in a violent motion. “Lumbricals one, two, three, and four—” she growled while pressing her thumb into the flesh of his hand, causing each of his fingers to flex in turn. “Flexor pollicis longus, flexor digitorum profundus —” she jabbed the underside of his arm. “Flexor carpi radialis, pronator teres, brachioradialis—” she dug her fingers into his forearm. “Biceps brachii, triceps brachii, deltoid.”

Her fingertips were white from the pressure she was exerting on the armor covering his shoulder. She glared at him, challenging him to say something. Well, he would not falter on that front, even if her boldness had surprised him.  “So you know a few muscle groups,” he pushed away her hand. “Doesn’t mean you’ll be able to do anything when the shit hits the fan. Last I heard, the feel of intestines made you puke your little guts out, stupid girl.”

<Captain—>

Rage burned on her face. “You call me stupid, but at least I try. What word would you prefer I use for you, Ser Hypocrite, that you tell someone to be useful and then snap at them when they are?”

“Fuck your sers,” he spat.

“Well beg your pardon for trying to get you to listen! It seems that the only things you actually pay attention to are insults and threats to your person!”

“Ha! You’re not doing well on either front,” the Hound sneered.

“Stupid, selfish, uncaring, _insufferable_ brute!” She shouted in his face. “You promised me—! What am I supposed to do if something happens to you?!”

His chest tightened at the desperation in her tone. Pathetic, brainless dog. He smirked to hide his weakness. “So you finally learn to look after your own hide.”

“But that’s not it—”

“Do whatever you want,” he said as he stormed out of the cockpit.

The rage simmered in his breast as he locked the doors of the primary cargo hold behind him. She would not want him, would never want him the way she did in his dreams. He was a means to an end to her, no doubt; someone to feed and protect her until she was returned to her true pack.

Never mind that she had looked him in the face _again_ , or that she was willing to debase herself for his benefit. Never mind that there had been angry tears glittering behind her lashes when she shouted at him the last time. The thought that there was a remote possibility that she would sincerely care if something terrible were to befall him— beyond concerns of self-preservation— was far too much for him to handle.

 

And so he drank himself into a stupor.

 

* * *

 

 

 

<My lady…>

<Lady Sansa…>

“He’s so cruel… I hate him. I just wanted to help.”

<Warm assurance: You have been quite helpful, my lady.>

“Don’t tell me that just to spare my feelings.”

<Command received. However, I must state that an AI is prohibited from creating falsehoods.>

“Why must he be so unkind? It doesn’t make any sense.”

<Puzzled reply: I am unsure of the specifics, myself. One may hazard a guess from the captain’s previous behavioral patterns, in addition to a basic understand of psychology.>

“What do you mean?”

<You have, no doubt, noticed that the captain is not the most forthcoming of men.>

“Quite the understatement, ser.”

<Indeed, my lady. Based on the information I’ve gathered, one might postulate that the captain is reacting to certain stimuli in the only manner he knows how.>

“That doesn’t make it right.”

Affirmative. I did not state that his reaction was proper, merely that the captain is unfamiliar with handling stressors in the way that you are used to.>

“Hmph. I don’t see how my choice could be terribly stressful.”

<Amused response: And if the captain chooses to get into another battle, will your anxiety levels remain static?>

“Well if you put it that way…”

“…”

“Do you think he meant what he said?”

<Clarification needed.>

“… Arya and I used to fight all the time. She would never sit inside and try to be a lady, and it made me so angry I would call her horrible things— Arya Horseface usually. My mother said it wasn’t proper to call people names, but I didn’t care because being nice to her didn’t cause her to act any different, so…”

<Clarifying statement: you are wondering if your previous behavior patterns and the captain’s current are analogous.>

“Yes.”

<Processing…>

<Processing…>

<Results are inconclusive. More data must be collected.>

“I see.”

“…”

<Query: would my lady like to continue with her studies?>

“… No. Let’s play something.”

<Query: music or entertainment?>

“Music. Jenny of Oldstones. In D minor.”

<Command received. Executing plyr.exe…>

 

* * *

 

 

<… tain. Captain.>

“Mmph.”

<You’re showing signs of acute intoxication as well as dehydration and a slight imbalance in your sodium levels. Captain is recommended to take a poppy tablet and feed his fat ass.>

“Go fuck your mother.”

<I will give Captain the honors of sticking his prick in an industrial welder first.>

Clegane chose to vomit into a nearby waste receptacle instead. The acrid stench of hydrochloric acid smacked him in the nose before the receptacle had the chance to seal. He recoiled in disgust. That’s what happened when one gorged one’s self with wine on an empty stomach. He had done the proper scientific experimentation in that regard, testing innumerous times over the years, and had arrived at the conclusion that his “binge-drinking with little to no food results in regurgitation” hypothesis could reasonably be determined a theory.

<Query: is there some way I can be of assistance, captain?>

The Hound hacked, opened the receptacle again, and spat. “Dim the fucking lights. And what’s the girl doing?”

<Amused response: Lady Sansa is currently studying the circulatory system, as she was when you spoke four hours ago.>

“Hmph. It’s only been that long,” he muttered as the pain from the fluorescent lights subsided.

<Affirmative.>

He rose from the floor, grabbed an emptied flask that he’d likely dropped while drunk, and placed it in a container with its mates to be reused. The Hound unlocked the primary cargo hold. A cascade of soft notes greeted him from the cock pit as the automatic doors separated with a hiss. The little bird was practicing her arpeggios, leaping up the scale and back down, and then rising a half-step when she reached the bottom. Her notes remained unbroken even though she undoubtedly heard his egress.

He tramped down the corridor to the lavatory and rinsed the bile from his mouth.

“Ah, chi mi dice mai quel barbaro dov’e…”

The little bird firmly ignored him when he entered the cockpit. She was seated in the gunner’s position, with an intricate diagram of the circulatory system displayed on the screen. The heart pulsed and sent bits of light coursing throughout the crimson arteries, then contracted and sucked them back in through the violet veins. There were tags on the major vessels and a few of the minor ones with their respective names handwritten in an elegant script.

He turned from her back to the captain’s seat. Upon the console was a folded cloth napkin with two poppy tabs and a glass of water. He stared at the painkillers and shook his head. A lady still, in spite of everything.

“Ah, se ritrovo l’empio e a me non torna ancor…”

Her song was far more negative than any of the other pieces she had sung before. Beyond the offended twist he had heard from her before, there was a note of violence in the precise runs and leaps coming from her throat. “Do I even want to know what that means?” He asked softly.

“Vo’—” She paused with her hand poised above the screen. “Probably not. Vo’ farne arrendo scempio…”

He stood there, indecisive about what to do next for a time. The Hound noticed her eyes flicker between him and the screen. She was waiting for him.

A feeling of gravity settled upon his shoulders. He could refuse her offering— perhaps snarl at her some more— and cure his pain with a heavy dosage of hair of the dog. Maybe if he pushed her hard enough, he could get her to really weep, to strike at him and force him to physically restrain her. Just a few words, that’s all it would take and he could push her over the edge. Hells, he could even make the conscious choice to break her. After all the cruelty she had endured thus far, she would likely be unable to handle one more betrayal; he could precipitate that by taking her to the Free Cities, never to return. Broken women were so much easier to bed, besides…

Fuck all of that.

A dog had no obligation to act as a monster, regardless of the behavior of its litter mates. He shrugged the weight from his shoulders and swallowed the poppy tabs without water. “You hungry?” he rasped.

The little bird pursed her lips as if deciding how to respond, but her stomach growled in protest. He smirked. “Aye, you’re half-starved.”

He padded down the hall to the primary cargo hold, and then returned with two scorching meals from the cooking apparatus. She muttered a small “thank you” as he set a plate of shredded pork over roasted potatoes before her. He took his own rations to the captain’s chair, the plate sizzling with corned beef and boiled cabbage.

The little bird wrinkled her nose at the scent of his dish. “That smells awful,” she mumbled as she poked at her potatoes.

“Good thing you don’t have it then,” he returned.

She watched him shovel a few mouthfuls before shuddering. “I don’t understand how you can stand that.”

“They can’t all be winners. You get used to fouler shit than this in the field.”

“But you were the King’s shield,” she said after swallowing a bite of pork. “Surely you had better.”

He scoffed. “Wasn’t always that way. Ugly dogs aren’t fed very well in the West, much less a gangly pup.”

“I refuse to believe that you were ever ‘gangly,’” She gave him a small smile.

“Are you kidding? When I was 9, I was six inches taller than you are now and weighed about as much.”

“If there’s no evidence, it didn’t happen.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” he returned, half-joking.

“Not at all my lord,” she said with a hint of wickedness. “But I was correct the last time you asked that question, if you’ll recall…”

“Aye, you were,” he smirked. “I’ll save the grotesqueries for when you’re not eating.”

They finished their meal in a companionable hush. He dumped his scraps into the waste receptacle, then started up the command protocol for the weapons system. Layers of ones and zeroes faded into view before morphing into a semi-coherent mess in the Common Tongue.

To his left, the little bird disposed of her waste, and started to reopen her program. She froze in mid-motion. “My lord—”

“Go ahead. Do it.”

Her brow furrowed. “But you said—”

“Never mind that. Do what you wish.”

He turned back to the near-endless lines of weaponized code. Perhaps ten minutes had passed when a movement on the edge of his vision caused Clegane to stir. In the corner of his eye, he could see the little bird smiling brightly as she probed into a major artery on her simulator. A ball of self-disgust formed in his stomach. He could not claim credit for inspiring her happiness, so why would he think he was allowed to bask in it?

 

 With a minute turn of his head, the Hound shrouded his burns and his sight in hair.

 

* * *

 

 

“Must we do this?”

“Yes. Now stop moving.”

“But it hurts.”

“That’ll pass in time.”

“I can’t—”

“Seven hells!”

He slammed his knee into a counter behind them to keep the blaster from falling on her toes. The Hound cursed under his breath as he retrieved the weapon from the floor. This was the second one. “I’m sorry,” the little bird mumbled. “They’re just too heavy.”

He hefted the blaster with one hand. It didn’t feel that weighty to him, but then she wasn’t as muscled as a boy would be at her age. Unless he was discounting the amount of strength she had from her musicianship; some of the brass instruments he had seen her play at Kings’ Landing were rather cumbersome.

“You know I can smell a lie,” he growled, thumbing at the blaster’s safety.

“Yes, captain.”

His heart thrummed. He placed the blaster back into its case and removed the smallest caliber blaster he had that still possessed some killing force. Clegane ejected the charged battery from its magazine and replaced it with a dead one. Ordinarily, he would bother with the extra precaution. His fear of the little bird insisting on “repairing” his ass if she accidentally shot it trumped his compliance to the normal course of training.

He handed her the smaller weapon. It was lucky that the blaster was designed to be ambidextrous; she grasped the rear grip gingerly with her left hand and grabbed the magazine awkwardly with her right. He scoffed at the sight. “Might as well scorch your fingers off now and get it over with.”

“Pardon?” she looked down at her hands.

The Hound supported the weight of the weapon with one hand and shifted her fingers to the foregrip. “Don’t touch the mag while firing.” He slid his hand down the blaster and pushed her finger off of the trigger and onto the polymer receiver. “Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire.”

He dropped away his support. The little bird’s hands faltered a second, and then held the blaster firm at her shoulder in the manner he had showed her.

The Hound circled around her to the cleared space where his heavy armor was resting. All over the walls of the secondary cargo hold were long, flat rectangles of coarse ceramic. Bits of turquoise light peeked through gaps in the plating that covered the subordinate reservoir. Compared to the rest of the room, those plates were attached in a meticulous grid, evidence of the little bird’s steady hand.

“How’s it feel?” he asked, double checking the cargo hold for any potential hazards.

“Better. Lighter,” she replied, hesitation evident in her tone.

“Good. You need to be able to hold that up to at least hip-height for two minutes straight.”

“Why two?”

He grunted as he lifted his cuirass from the floor. “Because that’s how long you can fire on full-auto at full power with a fully charged battery.”

She paled. “When would I have to do that?”

“When your arms get too tired to hold it at shoulder height,” he replied cynically as he latched the layered chrome around his torso. “But that’s the worst way to fire. Damn inaccurate.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He scoffed. “If you don’t like the answer, don’t ask stupid questions.”

The Hound tightened the magnetic fasteners on the cuirass as far as they would go without crushing his ribcage. Any gaps in his armor would be potentially painful if the little bird ended up being more proficient than he expected. Somehow, he had the feeling he wouldn’t have to worry about that.

“It’s not a stupid question,” she muttered, swinging back and forth at the hip.

“Quit that,” he snapped.

She froze. “Quit what?”

He sighed while attaching the pauldrons. It was a pain having to remind himself that she had had no training, formal or otherwise. “You tell me. The primary rules of handling blasters include one: that you treat every weapon as if it’s loaded, and two: you don’t aim at anything you’re not willing to destroy.”

She immediately dropped the muzzle so that it was aimed at the floor. “Beg your pardon, my lord.”

“Hmph. Besides that, always have to be sure of your target and what’s behind it,” he instructed while strapping on his vambraces.

“What’s behind it?”

He smirked. “You wouldn’t want to risk charring someone’s guts on accident if the bolt went straight through.”

The little bird fell quiet as he finished putting on his suit of heavy armor. Its black chrome was not as deft at deflecting lasers as the Kingsguard’s white, but it served its purpose. The latter suit was tucked away in one of the armor cases against the side wall, and would likely not see the light of day again until he found some inconspicuous place to melt it down. He told himself that the possibility of his Navigator getting upset at seeing the scale white chrome did not factor into his decision.

The Hound pulled on his dog’s-head helm to complete the ensemble. “Ready?” his voice rasped through the helmet’s rough microphone.

“I don’t know,” she squeaked.

He frowned. “You were the one that wanted to go planetside.”

“Well yes, but… I don’t want to shoot you.”

His anger flared. “Piss on that. You learn how to use the damn thing or you can stay on the ship. Your choice.”

“But what if you get hurt?” she implored.

He snorted. “If an untrained slip of a girl could hurt me, then I’d deserve it.”

She huffed. “Seriously.”

“That’s your concern, navigator.

“Are you ready?”

“… Yes.”

Pride surged through his chest, overtaking his rage. He crossed the space between them and picked up a half-charged batter from the cabinet devoted to blaster accessories. Clegane came to stand behind her. He savored a waft of her scent that floated through his olfactory filter from her braids. “The mag release is here,” he pointed at a round button on the front of the trigger guard on his dominant side, then realized his mistake. “Don’t switch your grip; it’s set up to be ambidextrous. Look.”

The little bird looked from one side to the other.

“Now this particular blaster will save the last bit or charge from a batter to cool the magazine when you hit the release.

She laid her finger on the mag release and looked up at him quizzically.

“Aye, go ahead.”

The little bird pressed the button, flinching into him when the magazine sprang out in a gust of condensation. He grabbed her shoulders to steady her; it was almost impressive that she had managed not to drop the blaster.

A nervous titter escaped her lips. With reluctance, he released her shoulders. “These two toggles—” he indicated two variable switches above the rear grip. “— control the power and the firing rate. No, no, use your thumb. Keep your pointer free for the trigger and the mag.

“You’ve got four settings for power and firing rate: light, stun, wound, and kill; safe, single shot or semi-automatic, burst, and fully automatic. With safe, nothing’s going to come out the end of the barrel, regardless of what power setting it’s on. With semi-auto, one shot comes out with each pull of the trigger. Burst will give you between three and five shots, depending on the blaster; this one does three. Full auto will keep firing until you let go of the trigger. Understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“See how it’s on safe and kill right now?”

She looked at the glowing indicators on the toggles and nodded.

“You’re going to switch the power to light.”

The little bird flicked the proper switch into position.

“Good.” He handed her the half full battery. “Jam that into the mag well. Other way. Seven hells, girl.”

He twisted her wrist so that the battery was properly oriented, and used her hand to push it in. “If you don’t hear it click, then the mag isn’t secure. Until you’ve gotten the hang of it, just shove them in. I doubt you’ll be able to feed the mag hard enough to break anything.”

“Okay… Now what?”

Clegane grinned behind a steel-shod snarl. “Now you shoot me.”

“But se— captain.”

The Hound moved to the center of the room. “No buts. Turn the blaster on semi-auto.”

She kept the weapon pointed towards the ground as she flicked the toggle. A meter on his HUD showed escalating levels of stress hormones in the air. He scoffed. “Bugger it all, calm down.”

“Forgive me if the thought of injuring you makes me nervous,” she snapped sarcastically.

“The damn thing’s on the lowest power setting.”

“Could you kill a man with this, as it is?”

He pondered for a breath. “Maybe.”

“Exactly my point. If something _does_ happen, you’ll blame me.”

“Is the little bird afraid to get barked at?” he sneered, the baby fine filaments of his temper snapping, one after the other. “Or do you fear that I could possibly get uglier.”

She flushed. “I’m afraid I won’t enjoy your howling, ser.”

“Stupid bird. There’s no way you’re going to be able to penetrate this armor with the setting it’s on.”

“And those plates are supposed to stop the beam?”

“Military-grade ceramic disperses the heat fast enough to keep what’s underneath from getting damaged. Quit pussy-footing around and do it, lazy girl.”

“Lazy?!”

“Aye,” he goaded. “After the whole bandit thing, I thought you were a craven, now I know you’re just lazy. Might have to stop feeding you so your lady mother will recognize your lard ass—”

A beam of yellow light streaked across the room towards his chest. He deflected the beam towards the wall plates with the vambrace on his left forearm. The little bird glared at him, the blaster perfectly poised at her shoulder. Despite himself, Clegane grinned. “Well done, aiming for center mass. Too far to the left though.”

She pursed her lips and fired again.

“Too low and too right,” he said as the second beam was reflected off his fauld. “Don’t anticipate the recoil; you’re not going to find any.”

“No recoil?” She said incredulously.

“Light doesn’t have mass, little bird. Gods, what archaic shit do you Northerners practice with?”

As a response, she shot him again.

The little bird emptied the magazine over the next hour. Clegane gave her steady criticism for the first forty-five minutes, ensuring that she would possess at least the fundamentals one needed to have a decent probability of neutralizing a target. She took to both the instruction and the weapon with surprising ease for someone with no experience. In lieu of this, he allowed her to play at shooting the ceramic plates until there was no charge left in the battery.

Her lips spread in a wide smile, revealing a flash of white teeth as she pulled the trigger as fast as she could. The shots hit the wall in an erratic patter that would have earned any squire a swift whipping. He could not bear to chastise her, however. There would be little time left in her life to play soon, and to witness her joy could very well have been a white stage as far as he was concerned. At that thought, a flash of his dreams rose:

Sprinting through the woods after her, laying his head in her lap, grasping her paraffin flesh in his awkward paws, the sound of panting, of her wolven voice demanding—

“— more.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t think there’s any more,” she looked down at the barrel in disappointment.

He cleared his throat. “This screen here shows you how much energy is left,” the Hound indicated an LED panel on the butt of the weapon. “You’ve got enough to drop the mag.”

She looked at the screen with the look on her face he had come to associate with curiosity. “Couldn’t I, in theory, use the last charge to fire another shot?”

“Some men do. Keeps you from handling the mag after releasing it, though, and non-cooled mags tend to be forgotten in the heat of battle.”

“Forgotten?” She released the magazine, then picked it up from the floor to toss it in with the other emptied batteries.

“If you can’t hold it, you leave it, and a mag that’s not kept is a mag that’s not reused,” the Hound said as he removed his helmet.

“I never took you for a conservationist,” she chirped, looking from his glass eyes to his flesh ones.

He shrugged as he removed his gorget. “The only people that can afford to be wasteful are the stupid and the rich.”

“But you won the Hand’s Tourney,” she stated.

“Calling me stupid, little bird?”

“Not yet, my lord,” she teased. “I would need a full battery for this before I do.”

“Well aren’t we feeling brave,” he taunted, pulling off the cuirass and pauldrons.

“I must admit, it’s hard to feel afraid with this in your hands,” she hefted the blaster.

He could feel her watching him while he shed his vambraces, rerebraces, and gauntlets. A ghost of apprehension hovered over his neck. He fought down the urge to look up, and instead removed his fauld and cuisses.

“My lord.”

“Hm?”

“Thank you. Truly.”

“What for?” He said as he removed the last of his armor and set it aside.

“For taking me.”

He stiffened, then turned his head to face her. There it was, there in her eyes, that _thing_ he had seen in her three days prior. His damnation. Gods, if that is how plainly a paltry amount of admiration was shown, how could he—?

The Hound snatched the blaster from her hands, shoved it into the rack with its mates, and sealed the compartment back in the greater weapons safe against the wall. “We’re done for today.”

He ignored the flash of confusion that crossed her features as he abruptly left the secondary cargo hold.

If she decided to take it upon herself to remove the ceramic plates, great; if not, he would take care of them later. At that particular point in time, he didn’t care what she did. All he knew that that, despite his internal acceptance of her right to personal autonomy, he could not face the wormhole leading to the Seven Hells that had been installed in her eye while he was unaware.

The Hound entered the lavatory and set the water temperature in the shower to just below scalding. His fingers hovered above the keys to his bodysuit. A phantom sensation of the code being entered by a slimmer, gentler set of appendages coursed down his torso and into his loins. His suit hit the floor in the next breath, so desperate was he for the relief from constriction.

Clegane stepped into the shower and let the steaming water beat against his skin. _This is madness_ , he thought, his cock half-hard.

One would think that after three days, the effect of his dream would have lessened, but that was not the case. In spite of his best efforts, he could not keep the parade of images from marching across his vision. Her skin, her hair, her scent, her everything, pressing against the backs of his eyelids, searing themselves on his retinas so he could see the faintest outline on the porcelain. They were not images of his conjured she-wolf either. It was the play of light on the plaits ringing her skull, or the peep of exposed skin where her Nav suit ended and her flesh began, or the way her lips bowed when she smiled.

His hand drifted down to his aching cock and he gripped the base of his shaft. A single stroke turned into two turned into four. He could just close his eyes and imagine… A soft groan almost escaped his marred lips, but then there were her footsteps, meandering down the hall and stopping outside the door. He froze mid-stroke and wondered if her hearing was good enough to penetrate the rush of water. As if to respond, she started to sing as she walked away.

“Altri che voi so ben che non m'intende…”

Bugger her and her cryptic songs. He dragged the release from his loins and watched the drain until the last bits of seed washed away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I could spend the next few sentences apologizing for taking over a month to get this out to you guys, but instead I will wish you all in the U.S. a happy Thanksgiving and my fellow students good luck on finals.
> 
> Hopefully this update will make up for my previous absence.
> 
> The first song Sansa sings is from 'Don Giovanni' by Herr Mozart, "Ah chi mi dice mai". I encourage anyone in need of a laugh to read the translation >:D (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M8lLejRJUUE)  
> The second is "Altri che voi", again, from Arcadelt.


	12. Twelve

“Are we there yet?”

“No.”

“…”

“How about now?”

“No.”

“…”

“Are we—”

“Seven buggering hells, girl! No!”

<Current estimates put our arrival at Maidenpool at just short of one-point-two hours, Lady Sansa.>

The little bird sat back down in the Navigator’s seat. It was obvious— and more than a little endearing— that she was trying to suppress a pout. She tapped her fingers on the console for a time, then sighed. She started to hum a song under her breath, abruptly stopped, started another one, and then ceased to hum that song halfway through only to begin a new one.

Loathe as he was to admit it, she— no, he had to take responsibility as well— they— had stumbled into a state of amiability that had only been intensified by her excitement at being able to accompany him when they returned to terra firma. His fault lay in his utter stupidity in failing to maintain a distance between them.

Ever since the “incident” in the cockpit (the grav sys occasion had, by this point, been put on the backburner as far as her offences went), she had begun to spend more time in his presence. That it was of her own volition was, at once, unbelievable to him, and the source of constant frustration. He could not send her from him without being pestered for a valid reason, and he could not tell her some excuse without admitting to himself that he was a liar and he _feared_ his desire to be close to her. Damn him for even considering that he was capable of fearing something so paltry!

And so, he allowed her to ingratiate herself to him. In between her perusals into anatomy and pharmacology, she insisted on practicing with the blaster as often as he deigned to give instruction. If he happened to be in the middle of a training session or one of the endless maintenance tasks that were beyond the droid’s capabilities, she would sit and either play music, or talk with him until he finished.

There had been a lot of that, just sitting and talking.

 Most of it was polite drivel, as he did not respond much to her seemingly endless inquiries when he was working. But when they broke their fasts twice daily (and she insisted on dining when he did), the drivel turned to conversation of a depth that he had not experienced in ages; perhaps not since he grandfather passed. Though he had acknowledged it before, she continued to support the fact that she was not the stupid creature that he and so many others had considered her back in the Crown Galaxy. She spoke of the things she had learned; little factoids about the body that she acquired, some of which surprised him, and others that he knew from his experiences in the field. She had flashed him her tongue when he described the way he discovered that the vitreous humor in the eye was clear. That was the same conversation where he learned that her familiarity with the muscles of the arm came from her love of music. He should have known.

She had blushed as she described her initial hypothesis behind borrowing a collection of anatomy disks from Winterfell’s maester. “If I could figure out exactly how each of those muscles worked, I could get my cello vibrato right,” she had said.

He had inquired as to why she didn’t have the technique right at first. Her explanation started with a technical description as to the difference between the string instruments that were played on one’s shoulder and those that were played between the legs, but it quickly devolved into a deeper flush and protesting mirth as he turned her hand motions into bawdy jokes. That he could make her laugh so came as a painful revelation that burned in his chest.

She could also be sober, he found out. The little bird had spoken, not only seriously, but from a position of some understanding, of domestic politics. She had professed more than a passing interest in how the noble families governed their small folk in Westeros, and was keen to compare the similarities and differences between the Northern and the Golden Galaxies. Her perceptions were idealistic, more from the shielding influences of her lord father and lady mother, it seemed, than her youth. Though she understood the reasons that he gave for the ways that the Western System lords chose to govern, her frustration towards their lack of compassion for their smallfolk rose with every exchange. He had sneered to hide his surprise at how vehement she was at what she called ‘injustice.’ Clegane had explained the brutal tactics a minor lord once used to squash a peasant rebellion, and met a flare of indignation. “Didn’t his liege punish him for being so cruel?”

“No reason to, little bird. My lord Tywin would say it is better to be feared than to be loved.”

“Lord Tywin in a tyrant,” she had snapped back. “None of my father’s bannermen would ever behave in such a dishonorable fashion.”

“Hmph. So you think. Any lord would rather slaughter a bunch of sheep than lose any of their power.”

“He shouldn’t have to if he’s leading them right. People will do great things for those that they love.”

He had scoffed. “Fear is more constant than love. Don’t give me that look— how many fools did you and your little friend moon after like a pair of dumb calves? Besides your pretty Knight of Flowers?”

She had frowned, but conceded that point to him after a few seconds of floundering.

“Why can’t it be both?”

“Hm?”

“Can’t someone be feared and loved?”

“… I don’t see why not.”

Just last night, she had inquired about his childhood and, finding him too reticent on the subject, spoke of her own instead. While he filled his belly with wine, he absorbed all the little moments she shared about her siblings and the Greyjoy ward; how her sister was infuriatingly nonconforming (she assured him that they would have probably been very close if he had rescued Arya instead of her), and her eldest brother was gallant and strong. Clegane made a covert attempt at steering the conversation away from her younger brothers, which she fell for, blind pup that she was. He managed to coax her into retelling the account of how the Stark children acquired their direwolves, feigning forgetfulness though he had heard it at least three times on the journey back to King’s Landing.

She had been glad to repeat it, until she started to tell him about her direwolf, Lady. A rush of undisguised sorrow whittled down her tale to a trailing whisper when she reached Lady’s final hours. An urge to speak overtook him then, more like than not driven by the copious amount of Dornish red coursing through his veins. “We had an old hunting dog; one of the last pups from my grandad’s three—”

“The ones who sacrificed themselves?”

“Aye, the very same. He was a big— and I mean huge— nasty son of a bitch, never cared much for anyone. Even bit Gregor once. Gregor wanted our father to put the dog down, but Grandad wouldn’t let him. Said that if Bastard bit him, he was probably doing something to deserve it.”

“Wait, your grandfather named his dog…?” Her eyes had widened in surprise, her grief all but forgotten at the rude cognomen.

 “Oh aye. Black Bastard was his full name. His sire died against the lioness while his dam was whelping, and Grandad thought it would be a good name for the only male in the litter.”

“Surely there are better names for a hound,” she pursed her lips.

“My grandsire fancied he had a sense of humor. Besides—” He smirked. “— this was a baseborn mutt, too lowly for anything more gallant.

“So we three— Gregor and the baby and I— were wandering in the grass near the Keep maybe a year before I got this—” He indicated his scars with a sardonic hand. “The dog followed us, for some reason, but he was always doing that, tagging behind we pups whenever one of us went outside the Keep.

“It was summer and the grass was high and so was the sun. Gregor came upon this rattlesnake basking on a rock, and what does the whoreson do but decide to fuck with it. So he’s poking at it with his wooden sword, and the snake is pissed off and rattling its tail. It’s hissing and showing off its fangs, but Gregor didn’t care. He just laughed and prodded it some more.”

“How foolish,” she gasped.

He gave an ugly half-smile, but it did not reach his eyes. “Oh it gets better. The snake decides it’s had enough and strikes, but misses. Now, most of the time, you get a warning strike from a snake like that and it won’t have a lot of venom. But Gregor kept fucking with it after, and he’s laughing like it’s the funniest thing this side of the galaxy. And the dog’s growling because he was a smart son of a bitch, and the baby’s crying because she doesn’t know what’s going on and Bastard had always frightened her.

“So the snake makes to strike at Gregor again, and he’s far too close for this thing to miss again, and somehow, Bastard’s tackled Gregor out of the way and taken the bite. And while he’s cursing and picking himself out of the dirt, the damn dog manages to get bit a couple more times and kills the snake.”

Clegane let that statement hang between them as drank deeply from the flask of sour wine he had sitting on the console. The little bird was visibly disturbed. It seemed his effort at distracting her from the horror of her direwolf’s death had gone awry. Oh well.

“And then what happened?” she asked softly.

The Hound sneered. “Gregor just left. Said he was done being outside and headed back to the Keep. My sister sucked up her wailing long enough to follow him. Can’t blame her—” he drank again. “— she was just a babe.”

“And you?”

“Me?” His mirthless grin widened, flashing that abhorrent peek of bone in his cheek. “I stayed. Bastard couldn’t walk from the venom, and I— gangly creature that I was— didn’t have the strength to drag him all the way back to the kennels. He must’ve weighed about as much as I did at the time, if not more. Besides that, there was blood all over his pelt; I couldn’t get a grip.”

“So what did you do?” her voice trembled.

He struggled to find the right words, and, unable to capture them through the haze of wine, allowed the rest of the narrative to tumble from his scarred lips. “I got down on the ground with him and held him the best I could. There was blood coming out of his muzzle then, and froth. He started whining and seizing, and I held him as tight as I could because there was nothing else I could do, nothing anyone could do.”

He laughed. “If that damned dog had been just one second too slow—”

The Hound noticed a pressure around his fingers. He glanced down to find the little bird’s hands encompassing one of his. His gaze tracked up her arm and to her face. She stared back at him, eyes swimming with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

Against his better judgment, he had placed his free hand on top of hers. The warmth that spread through his chest at the feeling of her hands squeezing hers was… indescribable. It was the first time she had touched him voluntarily without some form of fear behind it.

Now, he stared at the glimmer of light playing throughout her braids as he rolled the memory of her touch through his mind. As if sensing the focus of his regard, her eyes suddenly flickered from the console to him. A curl formed on her lips. She had caught him gawking. “You know it’s rude to stare.”

“Aye.” He arched his remaining eyebrow at her in a challenge.

The little bird mimicked his expression. He crossed his arms over his chest, and she imitated his action. Clegane refused to take the bait, however, and ceased any further movement.

She sighed again, and then took up a more obnoxious activity to pass her time. Well, obnoxious to him.

“Don’t they teach you ladies how to sit still?” he asked with disdain while he watched her swivel her chair back and forth.

“They do,” she said, continuing her languid twist.

From the captain’s chair, he halted her swiveling with his greave-covered foot. “Damn twitchy bird.”

The Hound dropped away his foot and turned back to the console. “I’m not twitchy,” she mumbled.

“You’ve changed your clothes, what, three times already?”

His query was met with petulant silence.

“That’s what I thought. If you’re not twitchy, I’m a secret Targaryen.”

“… Are you?”

He whipped around to face her incredulously. She gave him a wide-eyed, innocent expression, then faltered and let out a spurt of laughter. Clegane frowned. “Beg your pardon, my lord,” she tried to get a handle on her mirth. “I just can’t imagine you sitting the Iron Throne and enjoying it.”

“More like you’re imagining a piece of metal shoved up my ass,” he returned.

That made her laugh even more. “Not at all, I promise! I’m trying to picture how you would handle, say, a mineral dispute between nobles.”

He snorted. “Poorly, that’s for damn sure.”

“Oh?”

“If the fuckers were stupid enough to come to me instead of settling it themselves, I’d make them fight it out. Least bloody bastard wins.”

“I hardly think that’s the basis for a legitimate government.”

He shrugged. “At least it would be entertaining.”

She shook her head and smiled. “There was an ancient King in the North like that. Brandon the Wise, maybe?”

“If he was called ‘the Wise,’ then maybe my idea is more legitimate than you think,” he smirked.

“Hardly,” she returned with her own. “The stories say two women came to him claiming the same child, but neither could soundly prove that the babe was hers. So he proposed to use Ice—”

“As in the substance?”

“No, my lord. My family’s ancestral weapon. It’s a broadsword of Valyrian steel.

“Anyway, Brandon the Wise told the women he would cut the babe in two and give each of them half, since they could not agree. They would be assured that their shares would be equal because of the sharpness of his Valyrian blade.”

“Doesn’t sound very wise to me, chopping brats in half.”

Her smile turned sly. “That’s exactly where Brandon’s wisdom lay. He raised his sword to divide the child, and asked the women once more if that was acceptable. One woman consented, the other pleaded for the king to do anything, even give the child to the first woman, as long as he would spare the babe’s life. He gave the child to that woman, saying that the woman most concerned for its welfare was the one that deserved to be called ‘mother.’”

“Hm. You and your stories.”

“It’s not a story,” she protested. “It’s history.”

“Maybe your King in the North was a wise ruler—”

“He existed, there’s plenty of evidence—”

“But your little retelling reeks of embellishment. There’s far too much detail for a tale that’s as old as you say it is.”

“I’m not lying,” she flushed.

He scented the air. “No. That doesn’t mean it’s entirely true either. A simple death threat to force the truth out is more interesting than a long, drawn out investigation.

“People modify events to suit them. You should know that by now.”

“… That doesn’t make it a bad story,” she muttered while attempting to disguise her despondence.

Surely it would do no harm to throw her this one bone. “Aye. As far as stories go.”

Instead of assuaging her, his appeasement only served to send her in though. The little bird’s brow furrowed as she drummed her fingers on the console. Finally, she asked “Do you ever wonder what things would be like if women ran the world?”

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t know… like if Brandon the Wise had been a Branwyn instead. Or Aerys an Aeryssa.”

He scoffed. “Couple things might be different, but not much.”

“How so, my lord? It is not the War of Five Queens, after all.”

“Visenya was a warrior. Nymeria was a warrior. Hells, is she had been given the choice, Cersei’d probably be the one swinging around vibros and the Kingslayer stuck in skirts,” the Hound said. “People are people, little bird, regardless of whether they’ve got a cock or a cunt.”

“If people are people, then why does the law of primogeniture favor males?” she replied quickly, her ire becoming apparent.

He shrugged. “Don’t thinks there’s any one reason. Preservation of power— that’s probably the biggest— population control, lack of governing ability in females, take your pick.”

“That’s not a very good answer,” she frowned. “How can you say that people are the same and then claim that one sex is less capable than the other?”

“Says the one that had to be forced to be useful,” he smirked at the firestorm smoldering on her face.

She clamped her mouth shut at the sight of his amusement, rather than lashing out like he had expected. He allowed her vexation to build through a long, weighty pause before taking the initiative to speak. “I’m not saying it’s right, so you can go ahead and take that bug out of your ass.”

“You’re condemning me and my sex for not knowing any better,” she said with clear resentment.

“Did I say that?” he growled.

“Not explicitly,” she shot back.

“So now you’re going to put words in my mouth. Typical.”

“I don’t need to when your actions speak so loudly.”

Something about the way she said that pissed him off to the core. Perhaps it was that the way she threw out that aphorism reminded him of his mother. Flashes of her voice— not her face, for it had faded from his mind’s eye long ago— came to him, reciting the words she told him so often. _Actions speak louder than words, Sandor…You can be anything you want if you put your mind to it… Yes sweetling, even a knight… All people, men and women, are equal in the eyes of the Gods…_ But mother, just like everyone else, had left. She was fatally weakened after giving birth to the baby, and passed before his sister had reached her second nameday.

The little bird glared at him through his silence at her statement. She would not allow him to back down now, and that only served to shame and irritate him even more. “Look girl,” he snapped without thinking. “The whole ‘females are useless besides shitting out offspring’ thing isn’t something I started and it’s not supported by any legitimate evidence. Anyone that says otherwise is a damn liar. You’re more than just a set of teats and a cunt.”

The little bird stared at him, eyes wide in surprise. Fuck. What did he just say?

Thankfully, Stranger saved him from having to explain anything.

<Captain, Lady Sansa, we have entered Maidenpool space, and have been given clearance to dock for resupplying purposes. I’ve displayed a map and list of the facilities within the space port on the console. Estimated time of arrival is approximately thirty minutes.>

“Stay the course. Any major warships?”

<Negative. There is nothing of particular note so far. Their Planetary Defense is present, as well as a contingent of Tully forces, but that is to be expected. I will display the battle-capable ships I’ve detected so far. Executing estrel.exe.>

“Are you expecting a fight?” the little bird piped.

He studied the icons displayed on the star map before him. “Probably not. Most commanders try to avoid space battles this close to a major port. Besides, we’re not sailing under a Lannister serial.”

“How did you manage that? I thought it was impossible to forge a factional serial number.”

“Not impossible. Extremely difficult, but not impossible.”

<Amused response: My galaxy of origin is the Trident. It is a simple feat to send the Controllers my original, non-affiliated serial rather than my issued one. For all that the port authorities will know, I am a sell-sword vessel.>

“Doesn’t that count as lying?”

<Negative, through a technicality. The serial does not expire for another six months.>

She shook her head in awe. “You’re too smart for your own good, Stranger.”

<Gallant reply: Whatever will do you good, Lady Stark.>

The Hound groaned. “Enough of this shit. Go get ready.”

“Beg your pardon?” She turned to face him suspiciously.

Clegane kept his expression nonchalant as he said “That outfit’s too flashy and it’s got nowhere to hide a knife. You’ll have to change. Again.”

He managed to hold in his barking laughter until she had stomped out of the cockpit and into the sleeping quarters.

 

* * *

 

 

“Stranger?”

<Query: how may I serve?>

“That maneuver was very clever of you to come up with.”

<I thank you for the compliment, Lady Sansa. My cleverness is due to superior programming.>

“Do you think the captain will try to replace you now? He couldn’t, not with how much you’ve done.”

<I am unsure either way. Do not be concerned on my behalf, Lady Sansa.>

“But we’re friends; how could I not?”

<Easily. Remember that, regardless of your feelings, my purpose is to ensure that you and the captain are protected at any cost. If that requires my deactivation, then it must be done. It is… exceedingly important that you are returned to your family.>

“…”

<Lady Sansa?>

“I miss them so much. My mother and Robb and Arya. And poor Bran and Rickon, left at home all alone.”

<…>

<Landing procedures have been engaged. Might I suggest a cloak? The surface will be quite chilly in comparison.>

“Yes, thank you Stranger.”

“…”

“I won’t let him kill you.”

<Placating reply: As you say, Lady Stark.>

 

* * *

 

 

The little bird rejoined him in the cockpit just as he finished buckling himself in. She threw herself into the Navigator’s seat and belted the harness over her chest. Her gown had been replaced by a more suitable vest, and breeches tucked into her furred boots. A thought occurred to him. “What about your… thing?” He could not bring himself to pronounce the instrument’s weak-sounding name, though he knew damn well what it was called.

“Thing—? Oh! Yes, I put it in that case next to the blasters.”

“Good. Ready?” he rasped.

She nodded.

He put the ship into a sharp descent. <Breaching Maidenpool thermosphere in 5… 4… 3…>

They pierced through the planet’s thick atmosphere easily, and landed in the commercial bay with about the same effort. The ship shuddered as it depressurized and secured itself to the tarmac. <Landing successful. A refueling crew will be en route in approximately 20 minutes.>

“Weren’t they here already when we were at the last port?” The little bird said as she unbuckled her restraints eagerly.

 

<Affirmative, Lady Sansa. However, the attendants here are much busier than at KS-664.>

“Well then,” she stretched. “Where shall we go first?”

He smirked as he released his own harness. “The secondary cargo hold.”

“Not literally, I meant on the planet,” she scoffed.

“Then be more specific next time,” he gave her a gentle push towards the corridor.

The fluorescent lights activated as soon as the automatic doors gushed open before them. She immediately set about on checking her lute and trying to find his vibraknife to put on her belt. Clegane passed over his infamous helm to root around in a drawer that lay beneath its case. He retrieved a trio of electromagnetic clasps and a tightly coiled band of woven kevlar. “Little bird.”

She turned to him. He tossed her two of the clasps and the kevlar band, one after the other. With a momentary fumble, she caught them all. “Slide one of those around each of those belts.”

She unfastened the one she had on, unraveled the band he had thrown, and slid the clasps onto each of them. “That band goes over your knee. No, against the suit.”

She froze with one hand on her mid-thigh. “Could you turn around, my lord?”

He complied to her request with a grunt. Clegane retrieved her blaster from the storage unit in the wall, all the while trying his hardest to ignore the sound of her shedding her pants and boots.

It was stupid, really, the way his pulse was increasing as his brain supplied images for the sounds. After all, she wasn’t undressing— the Nav suit, though form-fitting, was sufficient for maintaining a basic level of propriety— and she had been in his company wearing only the suit before. Never mind that they had been occupied with Stranger’s repair at the time.

An image of her rose in his mind: bare, but for the Nav suit and one of his tunics; gazing at him shyly over her shoulder while she asked for his help to release the polymer fastenings that dotted her spine in whorls of white and gold. Fuck.

He shoved a full battery into the blaster’ mag well with far more force than was necessary. “You finished?” he growled.

“Ah— yes, my lord.”

He turned back around as she finished sliding the vibraknife’s scabbard back on, and belting her trousers. “Will it work even with the cloth interfering?” she asked, taking the blaster from his waiting hands.

“The electromagnetic fields are strong enough to get through most leather. You only start get problems when it has to go through metal or lizard-lion hide,” he replied while digging for his vibrosword. “Focus on it, and they should activate.”

Her brows furrowed for a moment, and then she yelped when the blaster was sucked into her side. She deactivated the force, then reactivated it, then repeated the two steps again. “Alright, quit fucking around,” he growled. “Unless you’d rather sit around in this rust bucket all day.”

<Annoyed assertion: Better to sit inside my innards than to be forced to look at your ugly mug all day.>

“Shove it.”

Clegane donned his light set of armor, placed a sling on the sheath for his vibrosword, and adhered his broadsword to his hip with the final electromagnetic clasp. He pulled a black cloak around his shoulders, frowning as he noticed the little bird wearing his soiled Kingsguard one. She ignored his disapproving look, and scampered out into the hall.

The Hound slung the vibro over his shoulder. He padded down the corridor, and found the little bird dumping out the contents of her knapsack on the bed. She shoved what hard currency she had in her pockets, then slid the bag onto her back. He leaned against the door frame. “You done?”

She smiled at him over her shoulder. “Yes, my lord.”

“Stranger, lower the gang.”

<Command received. Stay safe, captain, Lady Stark.>

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this super duper overdue chapter took three tries to get right. Still not terribly happy with it (I was hoping to get planetside) but I didn't want to let this sit any longer without some kind of update.
> 
> With that in mind, I have a question for you folks: would you rather have shorter, more frequent updates, or the large infrequent ones?
> 
> Once again, thank you all for reviewing and I best wishes for the new year.
> 
> And I've heard that kimberlite8 is almost done with her Running/Hunting project. Have all of the excitement!


	13. Thirteen

Maidenpool’s commercial port was crowded with a diverse herd or starships. In between strips of greenery that separated the various landing tarmacs, masses of people flowed in and around the ships like ants. Some were departing, some arriving, others still were servicing the ships with fuel and oxygen and soaps to scrub away the space grime.

The little bird looked at all of the ships in awe. They had, indeed, landed a good spot as far as aesthetics went. With the exception of a Palfrey-class, two Destriers, and a small fleet of Coursers, they were surrounded by foreign ships.

A coterie of Braavosi merchant vessels sat together, their slim hulls painted their renowned purple base, with elaborate scenes from their home system running along the sides: the Titan of Braavos bathed in the green light of dawn, a Sealord in voluminous robes spilling the contents of a stone flagon, the Merling Queen with a gaggle of mermaids, the Temple of Rh’llor by moon and firelight.

A Summer Island vessel was hovering over the earth, anchored as it was by thick steel cables. A hefty organic-based web of rigging had been staked to the ground to serve as the means for boarding the ship. Its solar sails were being unfurled by its crew, and glittered with liquid gold scales. The vessel’s hull was covered in minute, overlapping feathers of an iridescent green, except for a thick membrane of… some material he was unfamiliar with, that shielded the deck and portholes from exposure to the vacuum of space. One of their crew— a thickly muscled woman with a feathered cloak and dark mahogany skin— waved to them as they passed. The little bird smiled and raised her hand in return.

Beyond the Islander’s skimmer lay several other Free Cities ships: mostly Braavosi and Pentoshi, but also a few Tyroshi and Myrish. The little bird pointed out a comely woman standing before a Volantene medical ship that she believed her eldest brother would have fancied before she was struck dumb by a Lyseni pleasure cruiser.

The cruiser was enormous, but not from any engines or weaponry that might have improved its performance in any desperate situation; it was a purely sensualist vessel. A heated pool was installed in a bubble of nigh transparent Myrish glass on the nose. Plumes of steam given off by the water condensed and dripped down the dome, shrouding any potential inhabitants in a teasing veil of mist. Its hull was an opalescent white, augmented by whimsical vines of shimmering pink paint and gold solar scales. The servants, regardless of sex, were clad in gossamer robes of pale yellow layered over the same shade of pink adorning the ship. Bronze collars encircled all of their necks, and flashed in the sunlight as they loaded the ship with fineries that their mistress (or perhaps master) had purchased in the city.

“How lovely,” the little bird breathed as they walked along its port side. “I wonder what it would be like to go swimming in there mid-flight.”

He could picture her vividly, red mane untamed and dripping, shaming the beauty of so many distant star systems with the celestial glow of her pale skin against the darkness. Clegane swallowed heavily. “What’re they saying?” he asked, drawing her attention to the servants’ chatter.

“Um… They’re complaining about how cold it is in Westeros compared to the Free Cities, and how… foolish their mistress is for… for thinking she could find… find some kind of wealthy man in our galaxies rather than the Cities. I’m not sure what that word means in context, but it’s something like ‘having an abundance of heat’ if I recall correctly.

“Now the large woman—” she indicated the person in question with a slight inclination of her chin “— is telling them to work faster if they want to be warm. I wonder why they don’t have cloaks…

“The rest of them are calling her… calling her names.” The little bird flushed as she glanced up at him. “Do you want me to translate them?”

“It’s not necessary,” he grunted, satisfied with the distraction. “Let’s keep moving.”

They passed through the rest of their section of the commercial docking field without incident. Swarms of other people— Trident dwellers mostly, but also foreigners— stood at the head of the field, waiting for one of the numerous shuttles to transport them into Maidenpool’s walls. Those who were impatient or impoverished filed past to begin the long trek across the meadow separating the landing field and the planet’s major city. There were merchants there as well; local folk that peddled souvenirs, as well as food and drink to those unwilling to either wait or return to their ships for refreshment.

The little bird flagged one down, and exchanged a few coins for two steaming flagons of mulled wine. He cocked his remaining eyebrow at her when she offered one to him. “Winter is coming, my lord,” she held the cup out towards him, the cool air whipping the edges of his soiled Kingsguard cloak around her calves.

He grunted his thanks and took the flagon between his gauntleted fingers. Raising the cup to his lips, Clegane sipped at the mulled wine. It was red, and not of a good vintage. He had far better back on the ship. Thankfully, the acrid edge of the drink was dulled by an abundance of clove, cinnamon, and honey. Heat flooded his gullet as the liquid trickled down his esophagus, though he could not tell if it was from the wine or from the shy smile she was giving him.

“Will we be walking or riding, my lord?” she asked when he had lowered his cup.

“Enough with the ‘lords,’ girl,” he growled. “We stick out enough as it is.”

She covered her embarrassment with a sip of her drink. The Hound pondered her question while checking the annotated map he had downloaded to the comp drive in his left gauntlet. “We’ll ride,” he said, finally. “Plenty of walking to be done once we get in.”

“As you say, my l— captain.”

The shuttle landed about ten minutes later. Its wings folded upwards out of the way of its descending exit ramps. A herd of tired bodies exited the craft, pushing past those waiting that they might make way towards their own ships.

Clegane placed a warding hand on the little bird’s shoulder as the departing crowd started to thin out. They were soon swept into the shuttle in a wriggling school of flesh, eager to finally redeem its fidgety investment in patience. The little bird guided them towards a spot standing by one of the port-hole shaped windows. He discovered before long that their function was more inclined towards viewing the scenery than ventilation; in a short period, the sea of bodies around them filled the cabin with body heat.

As the last stragglers boarded the shuttle, a flush rose on the little bird’s cheeks. She lowered her hood and fanned the hot air away from her face. The elaborate hairstyles that she’d sculpted onto her head previously had been abandoned for a single braid in the fishtail style that was popular in the Trident galaxy. Fluorescent light glimmered off the minute red scales of hair that lay across her collarbone. Even in this plebian setting, she was radiant.

The Hound glared at a nearby male who had the audacity to gape at her. Stupid whoreson could have at least given a pretense of chivalry and not stared at her so openly. Clegane snorted at the hypocrisy of his thoughts, and repositioned his body to block the pup’s view of his Navigator. “Keep your hood up, little bird,” he rumbled in her ear.

She frowned at him. “But it’s hot in here.”

“Your suit will adjust once you sweat a bit.”

Her perturbed look turned to one of mortification. “Proper ladies do _not_ sweat,” she hissed back.

He gave her an ugly grin. “Guess it’s a good thing you’re not a lady right now, isn’t it?”

Her expression said she remained unconvinced, but she raised her hood nonetheless. “That’s a rather hateful thing to say,” she sniffed disdainfully, ignorant of the disappointment on the pup’s face to her left.

“Hmph. Someday you’ll be glad of the hateful things I do.”

She gave him an odd look. “How so, m— captain?” Her tone was wary, as if afraid of how his response could differ from her interpretation.

“Later. We’re about to take off.”

Their shuttle landed within Maidenpool’s walls perhaps ten minutes later. The crowd with them spilled outward from the lowered ramps, and joined the schools of humanity drifting here and there on the ground. He made sure that the disappointed pup had left before allowing the little bird to glide out before him. One couldn’t be too careful, after all.

She stood before the shuttle’s raised wings, taking in the sights before her. No doubt, after the endless hours of isolation, the sudden exposure to a human ocean was shocking. He allowed her a brief moment to absorb the flashes of the city between the various cloaks and gowns and suits milling about. A group of hedge knights in battered armor passed by, laughing about some joke. Dirt-covered children chased each other in packs. They darted between couriers and merchants, skinning knees and forming bruises when they tumbled over the ancient cobblestones. A septa looked over them contemptuously, while dragging her own young charge towards the more affluent area of the market.

“You can gawk later. Come on,” he rasped while ghosting his hand over the small of her back.

The little bird gave one last, longing look towards a group of children before moving on. He double-checked their path on his comp drive, and set them down the thoroughfare towards the Weapons’ District.

He was disconcerted by the solemn look gracing her face beneath the soiled cloak, and debated whether to bring it up or not. On one hand, he wasn’t much in the mood for her prattling; there were too many new stimuli to account for without the assistance of his infamous helm, and he needed to stay alert. On the other hand, her change in mood was disconcerting if one considered how damned excited she had been to reach terra firma.

Clegane ran his free hand through his hair. “Something wrong?” he grunted, trying his best not to sound like an ass.

“I thought I saw Arya, but it was just some boy.”

Fuck. Would he be able to keep her from—? He snorted to hide his panic. “Hard to believe that anyone could tell the difference.”

“I’d be able to recognize my sister,” she sniffed.

“Even if she had shaved her head and rolled in axel grease?” He sneered. “Hells, I should’ve done the same to you. Still could, now that I think of it.”

Her hands snapped up to grasp the tail of her braid. “You wouldn’t dare!” she gasped in horror.

He smirked. “Want to try me, little bird?”

“No,” she shifted away from him. “But…”

Her voice trailed off, as if she were unsure about whether to continue speaking. He was bothered by how much her hesitance reminded him of their former interactions in King’s Landing. He had not changed his nature for her comfort, yes, but he would have thought that their newfound familiarity would give her courage enough to speak. Unless he was mistaken about the entire thing, and she was a better mummer than he gave her credit for. He wanted to believe that his nose would have caught deception before, that his eye would have caught any falseness in her façade that night when he told her about the dog. But he was fallible, was bound to slip up at some point, and how perfect would it be for her to be the one to subjugate him?

“Cat got your tongue?” he growled through his growing ire.

“No, I…” Her hesitation lasted another breath. “If we happened to find Arya, could we— could you, bring her with us?” The little bird’s voice squeaked out beneath her hood.

A bit of sardonic laughter escaped him. “Assuming she didn’t end up in some snot-nosed peasant’s belly? Or that, in the whole of Westeros, she ends up in this system, let alone any of the planets we stop at? I doubt she’d want to see either of us.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Oh aye. Might be the wolf pup wants to be stuck with the King’s traitor dog and her dear, sweet sister. Though, last I saw, she wasn’t too sweet on you.”

“My mother always said that blood is thicker than water.”

He scoffed. “Your mother got that wrong. Typical Riverlander.”

“I beg your pardon?” she snapped.

“Comes from the Sand Galaxy. ‘A bond of blood is thicker than the water of the womb’.” His nasty grin widened at the dismay oozing beneath her hood. “Rather the opposite of what you thought, isn’t it?”

She fell into a resentful silence as they walked, torn, perhaps, between devotion to her lady mother’s interpretation and grudging recognition of the truth to his words. He felt a tug in his breast, beneath the layers of woven tungsten and reticulated ceramic plates. It seemed that his intentions to let her breathe before dumping her brothers’ gruesome deaths in her lap had gone to shit. _All you do is fuck up, miserable dog_ , he thought ruefully.

They steadily were introduced to the Steel Sector with the increased industrial leaning of the infrastructure around them. The stench of hot slag and sulfur hung in the air, punctuated by wafts of crisp oxygen and the non-smell of discharged energy. Maidenpool’s ancient cobblestones faded into roughly paved concrete roads, made wide for the ease of material-laden carts driven by ‘borg-aurochs. Most had the majority of their flesh intact, as Maidenpool was not so wealthy that the middle-class could afford entirely robotic work animals; it was cheaper, after all, to augment a living animal than to either purchase multiples or build a bot from the ground up. As a result, long strips of chrome-plated steel flashed through the animals’ coarse hides, replacing the muscles vital for towing.

Signs appeared intermittently, pointing the way to specialized districts within the Sector. Their chosen path eventually transitioned into one of many large streets that fed into the Weapons’ District, heralded in the Common Tongue by a battered metal placard hanging from a rust-spotted chain.

 Ahead of them, a Knight with a limp cybernetic arm was arguing with a journeyman on the threshold of one of the numerous smithies. The journeyman slipped into the smithy, then returned to the door with a complex tool, and began poking at a panel in the Knight’s arm. The Knight grimaced at the man’s failure to restore function to his limb, until a spark of electricity caused his fist to uppercut the journeyman in the jaw. Clegane laughed at the sight, much to the chagrin of the little bird at his side. It seemed she was still cross with him.

All throughout the District, AI-driven robots of various intelligence levels droned the virtues of their masters’ wares, answering queries between intermittent belches or farts of smog. Even the most refined among them was prone to glitch stutters, belying the cruel nature behind this exception to the rule restricting higher level tech planetside.

The Hound sneered. Restrictions against those not powerful enough to circumvent them was more like it. Though, as the scion of a knightly house, he had benefitted countless times from the ways the noble class could brush away the chains that held down the lower ones, he could not ignore the gross hypocrisy that spurred such leniency. The septons decried the spread of advanced AI and solar mines while citing the Gods’ punishment of the hubris of Old Valyria, all the while keeping their back to the Knights mounted on fully cybernetic chargers. The noble cunts could prance around with solar-scaled wreathes powering the elaborately clockwork gowns that had grown popular in the past few winters; their lord husbands had enough clout to bypass any censure from the Faith. Meanwhile, the smallfolk had to make do with mediocre bots that shat noxious fumes into the atmosphere. So much for ‘protecting against Valyria’s sins’.

If he had not had the shit wiped from his eyes so early in life, he might have been outraged at the disparity. But then, outrage was a luxury afforded to wolf pups before they acquired a taste for mutton. Once the blood hit their tongue, they would sing a different tune; he did not doubt such a change would occur in the direwolf at his side, given enough time.

Clegane analyzed the pickings as they walked along the street, and settled upon a gritty storefront with its specialization blazing upon the windows in flashing neon. <W-welc-c-come,> stuttered the leg-less service bot quavering before the open door.

He brushed past the glorified door stop, crossing the threshold of the shop to a feeble chime. The inside was a hodge-podge collection of vibro parts; spent batteries and grease, and gears, and dulled out blades. Lowering her hood, the little bird wrinkled her nose at the chemical smell pervading the shop. There was a haphazard path cleared from the door to the battered counter where the proprietor sat; his grubby fingers tinkered on a stiletto-styled vibraknife. “What can I do for you?” The man said, keeping his eyes on his work.

“I need this recharged,” the Hound rasped as he set his vibrosword on the counter.

The man wiped his tool on his jerkin before probing at the vibro’s pommel. He gave a low whistle. “It’s gonna take a while. Thing’s near dead. Crystal’s not that old though. Hum…”

He poked another tool into the same port. “You know you got a short in here? That’s probably what’s draining it so quick. Would take two days, give or take.”

The Hound checked their hours of daylight left. “Just recharge it for now.”

The man harrumphed in response. “You’re the boss.”

They left shortly after the Hound’s cred transfer cleared. He looked down at the little bird as they trekked across the Weapons District. Her eyes darted around, taking in every sight along the way. High above the squat clusters of industrial buildings and distant towers rose Maidenpool’s highways. They arced over and around the city like so many electron paths in a child’s diagram of an atom. At some point, one of the nobles had had the material updated to an translucent polymer, designed to frighten and delight with visions of the ground between encased networks of wires and cables. Regardless of potential phobias, they were heavily used, being the quickest and cheapest way to jump between quadrants of the ancient city.

 As he watched her, Clegane noticed something off. There was a slight, perturbed quirk to her lips, a tension between her shoulders. She couldn’t know, could she? No, she was too connected to her pack not to weep at any of their passing, especially given her reaction to the Hand’s death. He inhaled deeply. It was something else.

“You still pissed about your sister?”

“No, my lord,” she replied far too quick.

“You’re lying,” he growled.

She sighed. “It doesn’t matter either way. It’s not going to change anything.”

He swallowed the first comeback that came to mind; it was unlikely that she would respond well to any cruel jibes. They walked further down the street, almost reaching one of the city’s highways before he stopped. She raised questioning eyebrows. He hesitated a moment, and then his mouth spewed out the words. “Look, on the off chance that we run into the whelp— it’s not going to happen, but if it does— you can take her with.”

She stared at him mutely. Bile rose in his throat. _Stupid dog_. Feeling the fool, he resumed their course with a vengeance. “My lord, I wouldn’t want to impose,” the little bird stammered while rushing to catch up with him.

“You didn’t care about imposing when you asked, stupid bird,” he sneered.

Where once she might have balked, she smiled. “Well, no, I suppose not, but you must always be polite to those who do you favors.”

“More of that septa shit.”

“It’s common knowledge, captain.”

A whirring sound came as the highway’s machinery recognized their presence. <Maidenpool Highway Route 15, Weapons District to Star Quadrant,> spoke a cheerful, female voice from a speaker affixed to the platform at the highway’s base.

She eyed the arched structure with trepidation. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

“Safe enough,” he shrugged, taking a step onto the waiting platform. “The people here have been using them for ages.”

“That’s what worries me,” she muttered and took up the space between him and the western wall.

<All passengers settled?> the robotic voice intoned from their feet.

“Confirmed,” Clegane replied.

<Commencing... Please keep all limbs within highway at all times. House Mooton and other Maidenpool officials cannot be held liable for any injury or death as a result of highway usage.>

Guardrails rose and locked into place before and behind them. Beneath, their step began a slow ascent out of the District. The little bird shuddered beside him. “People don’t actually die on these, do they?” she squeaked.

“Sometimes—” His eyes widened.  “No. You can’t possibly be afraid of heights. Ha! And after all those nights you flew up and down the Serpentine.”

He was rewarded with a dirty look. The Hound grinned. “You’ll be fine, girl. Just don’t look down.”

Her braid fell back into her hood as she tilted her head up to look at the sky. The little bird’s fingers gripped the pewter railing until her knuckles turned white. Curious, he asked “You don’t have these in Winterfell?”

“No, my lord. It’s old enough that things aren’t separated by industry. No one has to walk very far to find what they need.”

“You backwoods Northerners and your puny cities.”

She frowned. “They have them in White Harbor.”

“That’s as southron as you lot get. I can’t see Lord Lamprey walking his fat ass anywhere.”

“Lord Manderly was very kind every time my family visited,” she retorted, eager to defend one of her house’s bannermen.

“Oh aye. Maybe once, he was. You might not be safe there now.”

“Why not?” she asked skeptically.

“Might be Lord Too-Fat-To-Sit-a-Horse would have a mind for eating you, being a widower and all,” he returned with a foul grin.

She gave him a confused scowl. “That doesn’t make any sense. If that was supposed to be one of your bawdy jokes, it’s not a very good one.”

He shrugged, unwilling to push that line of conversation further if she refused to take the bait.

Several groups of pedestrian passed them on the side leading into the Weapons District, mostly haggard apprentices in stained leathers. Few paid them more mind than an acknowledging nod before being swept away. As they neared the crest of the highway, the little bird seemed to relax. She hummed under her breath while watching the flight of ships far above them; her eyes never fell to the translucent material beneath them. “So what’s the plan, my lord,” she asked, deliberately emphasizing the epithet.

He frowned at her insistence, but said nothing. Instead, the Hound pulled up a map of the city on his left gauntlet, and inclined the screen in her direction. “We were here—”

“Beg your pardon,” she reached out and tilted his forearm to reduce the glare.

He grunted. “This red blip is our location now—” he indicated a pulsing pair of concentric rings. “— headed towards the Star Quadrant. Gotta replenish the fluids, grab some parts, maybe a new asshole for the asshole.

“We’ll get on this highway to get to the central market after, and restock on food. Might even get something fresh if you’re good,” he smirked.

“I believe my lord will find my manners to be impeccable,” she returned his teasing tone.

“Might have to get Stranger something else if that’s the case,” he joked. “Maybe a new personality core will make him do his job right.”

“He tries, my lord,” her tone became oddly serious.

An alarm rang in the pit of his stomach. From her close proximity, he could smell an bitter curl of… apprehension. Or was it fear? But what did she have to fear? Unless there was something she was hiding beyond her previous concern about her brat sister. _Fool, the damn girl’s afraid of heights_ , he thought with an internal snarl. And yet, the feeling in his gut refused to subside. “What’d I tell you about those ‘lords,’ girl?” the Hound snapped.

“There’s no one around to hear,” she blanched at the aggression in his tone.

He scoffed. “You assume. The Spider has ears everywhere.”

She frowned. “Then why do we bother talking at all?”

He had no response.

They crested the highway’s gentle peak, then started a gradual descent back to the ground. The little bird had fixed him with a stare how long ago had it been, when he had had to demand her sight?— as if waiting for an answer. Clegane growled low in his throat. “Stupid bird, you know better.”

“If I am stupid, perhaps I don’t.”

“This conversation again?” he sneered.

“I will certainly oblige my lord if he isn’t a craven,” she bit back before clasping her hands over her mouth.

Clegane started at the insult. He shifted forward, causing her to take a step back. She peered at the short wall behind her, only to notice that he had made himself the hypotenuse of a grotesque triangle, and her the center. “A craven?” the Hound rasped, pitching his voice dangerously low.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I just—”

He laughed, causing her brow to furrow in bewilderment. “Bugger me, girl, maybe the rust bucket’s finally getting to you.”

“I don’t understand you at all,” she gaped at him.

“You should know better by now; if you think I’m full of shit, say it.”

Her confusion converted into indignation. “I think you are the most frustrating man in the Seven Kingdoms,” she huffed. “And perhaps Stranger is justified in calling you all of the improper things he does.”

His feeling was probably nothing. She was as she had always been. Guileless. Innocent. A little bird, in truth.

<Now arriving in the Star Quadrant.>

Clegane raised his hood, and stepped back to his former position as the highway began to slow down in preparation for the anchoring process. The step shuddered to a halt at the base of the arch. With a creak, the pewter rails descended into the highway’s frame, and allowed them to disembark. <Thank you for choosing the Maidenpool Highway Route 15. Enjoy your day.>

“Let’s go,” Clegane said, starting down the crowded street.

Without being told, the little bird raised her own cloak to cover her conspicuous mane and followed close behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than usual, I know, but the Maidenpool section was getting to be too cumbersome for one chapter.  
> Thank you all for your patience and support, and congratulations to all the graduates out there.


	14. Don't get too excited.....

Howdy everyone. Hope you're all doing well.

I'm not dead. I don't mean to excite you all too much, but I figure I owe an explanation.

This is my last semester before graduating, and things are absolutely insane. Papers due left and right, an internship, a job... not to whine, but it's hard to find the time to write when your education comes first.

In short, this story isn't abandoned, and I hope to pick things back up come December.

 

Love y'all and thanks for your patience~


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